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violating any of the above rules. 

BY ORDER OF THE Secretaey : EDW AED M. DAWSON, 

Chief Clerk. 



i 



3273 b— 1 m 



; .>..i ' .s .^/;. , :js^) •fe'.H^^v,..,^.-?!-- . V w.^ :^k::, ■ >^. ,^,^ 



lOBEET BeALL, 

jseller and Stationer. 



THE POEMS 



FREDERICK LOCKER- ^a.^.:^ 



AUTHORIZED EDITION 




NEW YORK 

FREI;Ei;iCK A. STOKES & BROTHER 

MDCCCLXXXIX 






■Rr Transfer 



CONTENTS. 


V 




PAGE 


The Jester's Plea 


129 


To My Mistress, .... 


132 


My Mistress's Boots, . . . . 


134 


The Rose and the Ring, 


137 


Nuptial Verses, 


139 


Mrs. Smith, 


142 


Implora Pack, 


145 


Mr. Placid's Flirtation, 


147 


Beggars, 


153 


The Jester's Moral, 


157 


Advice to a Poet, . . . . 


162 


An Aspiration 


166 


A Garden Idyll 


168 


St. James's Street, . . . 


171 


Rotten Row, 


-^is 


A Nice Correspondent ! 


178 


An Old Buffer, 


181 


To Lina Oswald, .... 


184 


On "A Portrait of a Lady," . 


186 


The Music Palace, .... 


189 


A Terrible Infant, . . . . 


193 


With a Book of Small Sketches, 


193 


At Hurlingham 


194 


Unreflecting Childhood, . 


197 



vi CONTENTS. 






PAGE 


Little Dinky, . . . . 


. 199 


Gertrude's Necklace, . 


201 


Gertrude's Glove, 


. 203 


Mabel :— 




I. At Her Window, . 


204 


2. Her Muff, .... 


. 20s 


To LiNA Oswald, . . . . 


208 


The Reason Why, 


. 210 


A Winter Fantasy 


211 


The Unrealized Ideal, 


. 213 


It Might Have Been, . 


215 


Love, Time, and Death, . 


. 217 


The Old Stonemason, . 


219 


A Rhyme of One, 


. 221 


My Song, 


223 


INCHBAE, 


. 226 


Any Poet to His Love, . 


228 


The Cuckoo, .... 


. 230 


Heine to His Mistress, . 


231 


From the Cradle, 


. 232 


The Twins, 


233 


An Epitaph 


. 234 


Baby Mine 


23s 


Du Rys de Madame d'Allebxet, 


. 237 



CONTENTS. Vll 

PAGE 

The Lady I Love, .... 238 
Our Photographs, . » . .241 
Ma Future, ..... 243 
My Neighbour's Wife ! . . .244 

Arcady, 246 

A Kind Providence 247 



NOTES 251 



POEMS OF FREDERICK 
LOCKER. 



THE OLD CRADLE. 

And this was your Cradle? Why, 
surely, my Jenny, 
Such cosy dimensions go clearly to 
show 
You were an exceedingly small picka- 
ninny 
Some nineteen or twenty short sum- 
mers ago. 

Your baby-days flow'd in a much-trou- 
bled channel ; 
I see you, as then, in your impotent 
strife, 



8 POEMS OF FREDERICK LOCKER. 

A tight little bundle of wailing and flan- 
nel, 
Perplex'd with the newly-found fardel 
of Life. 

To hint at an infantile frailty's a scan- 
dal ; 
Let bygones be bygones, for some- 
body knows 
It was bliss such a Baby to dance and to 
dandle, — 
Your cheeks were so dimpled, so rosy 
your toes. 

Ay, here is your Cradle ; and Hope, a 
bright spirit. 
With Love now is watching beside it, 
I know. 
They guard the wee nest it was yours to 
inherit 
Some nineteen or twenty short sum- 
mers ago. 

It is Hope gilds the future, Love wel- 
comes it smiling ; 



THE OLD CRADLE. 9 

Thus wags this old world, therefore 
stay not to ask, 
" My future bids fair, is my future be- 
guiling ? " 

If mask'd, still it pleases — then raise 
not its mask. 

Is Life a poor coil some would gladly be 
doffing ? 
He is riding post-haste who their 
wrongs will adjust ; 
For at most 'tis a footstep from cradle 
to coffin — 
From a spoonful of pap to a mouthful 
of dust. 

Then smile as your future is smiling, 
my Jenny ; 
I see you, except for those infantine 
woes. 
Little changed since you were but a 
small pickaninny — 
Your cheeks were so dimpled, so rosy 
your toes I 



lO POEMS OF FREDERICK LOCKER. 

Ay, here is your Cradle, much, much 
to my hking, 
Though nineteen or twenty long win- 
ters have sped. 
Hark ! As I'm talking there's six o'clock 
striking, — 
It is time Jenny's baby should be in 
its bed. 

I8SS. 



PICCADILLY. 

Minnie, in her hand a sixpence. 

Toddled off to buy some butter 
( Minnie'' s pinafore 7vas spotless) 

Back she brought it to the gutter ; 
Gleeful, radiant, as she thus did. 
Proud to be so largely trusted. 

One, two, three small steps she^d taken 

Blissfully came little Minnie ; 
When, poor bantling ! doivn she tumbled. 

Daubed her hands, and face, and pinny, 
Dropping, too, the little slut, her 
Pat of butter in the gutter. 

Never creep back so despairuig — 

Dry tliose eyes, my little fairy : 
Most of us start off in high glee. 

Many come back ^* quite contrairy.'''* 
Pve utourn'd sixpences in scores too, 
Damaged hopes and pinafores too. 

A Sketch in Seven Dials. 

Piccadilly! Shops, palaces, bustle, 
and breeze, 

The whirring of wheels, and the mur- 
mur of trees ; 

By night or by day, whether noisy or 
stilly, 

Whatever my mood is, I love Piccadilly, 



12 POEMS OF FREDERICK LOCKER. 

Wet nights, when the gas on the pave- 
ment is streaming, 

And young Love is watching, and old 
Love is dreaming, 

And Beauty is whirling to conquest, 
where shrilly 

Cremona makes nimble thy toes, Picca- 
dilly ! 

Bright days, when a stroll is my after- 
noon wont, 

And I meet all the people I do know, or 
don't :— 

Here is jolly old Brown, and his fair 
daughter Lillie — 

No wonder some Pilgrims affect Picca- 
dilly I 

See yonder pair riding, how fondly they 
saunter. 

She smiles on her poet, whose heart's in 
a canter ! 

Some envy her spouse, and some covet 
her filly, 

He envies them both,— he's an ass, Pic- 
cadilly ! 



PICCADILLY. 13 

Were I such a bride, with a slave at my 
feet, 

I would choose me a house in my fa- 
vourite street ; 

Yes or no — I would carry my point, 
willy-nilly : 

If "nOj" — pick a quarrel; if *'yes,"— 
Piccadilly ! 

From Primrose balcony, long ages 

ago, 
** Old Q." sat at gaze,—who now passes 

below ? 
A frolicsome statesman, — the Man of the 

Day; 
A laughing philosopher, gallant and 

gay; 
Never darling of fortune more manfully 

trod, 
Full of years, full of fame, and the 

world at his nod : 
Can the thought reach his heart, and 

then leave it more chilly — 
*' Old P. or Old Q.,— I must quit Picca^ 

dilly " ? 



14 POEMS OF FREDERICK LOCKER. 

Life is chequer'd ; a patchwork of 

smiles and of frowns ; 
We value its ups, let us muse on its 

downs ; 
There's a side that is bright, it will then 

turn us t'other, 
One turn, if a good one, deserves yet 

another. 
These downs are delightful, these ups 

are not hilly, — ■ 
Let us turn one more turn ere we quit 

Piccadilly. 

1856. 



THE OLD GOVERNMENT 
CLERK. 

(OLD STYLE.) 

A kindly, good matt, quite a stranger to fame. 
His heart still is green, thd his head shows a 
hoar lock ; 

Perhaps his particular star is to blame., — 
It may be he Jiever took Time by the forelock. 

We knew an old scribe, it was *'once 
on a time," 
An era to set sober datists despair- 
ing : 
Then let them despair ! Darby sat in a 
chair, 
Near the Cross that gave name to the 
village of Charing. 

Though silent and lean, Darby was not 
malign, 
What hair he had left was more silver 
than sable ; 



l6 POEMS OF FREDERICK LOCKER. 

He had also contracted a curve in the 
spine, 
From bending too constantly over a 
table. 

His pay and expenditure, quite in ac- 
cord, 
Were both on the strictest economy 
founded ; 
His rulers were known as the Sealing- 
wax Board, 
— They ruled where red tape and 
snug places abounded. 

In his heart he look'd down on this dig- 
nified knot ; 
And why? The forefather of one of 
these senators — 
A rascal concern'd in the Gunpowder 
Plot- 
Had been barber-surgeon to Darby's 
progenitors. 

Poor fool, is not life a vagary of 
luck ? 



THE OLD GOVERNMENT CLERK. 1/ 

For thirty long years — of genteel des- 
titution — 
He'd been writing despatches j which 
means he had stuck 

Some heads and some tails to much 
circumlocution. 



This would seem rather weary and 
dreary ; but, no ! 
Though strictly inglorious, his days 
were quiescent. 
His red-tape was tied in a true -lover's 
bow 
Every night when returning to Rose- 
mary Crescent. 

There Joan meets him smiling, the 
young ones are there ; 
His coming is bliss to the half-dozen 
wee things ; 
The dog and the cat have a greeting to 
spare, 
And Phyllis, neat-handed, is laying 
the tea-things. 



1 8 POEMS OF FREDERICK LOCKER. 

East wind, sob eerily ! Sing, kettle, 

cheerily ! 
Baby's abed, but its father will rock 

it;— 
His little ones boast their permission to 

toast 
That cake the good fellow brings home 

in his pocket. 

This greeting the silent old Clerk under- 
stands. 
Now his friends he can love, had he 
foes he could mock them ; 
So met, so surrounded, his bosom ex- 
pands, — 
Some hearts have more need of such 
homes to unlock them. 

And Darby at least is resign'd to his lot ; 
And Joan, rather proud of the sphere 
he's adorning, 
Has well-nigh forgotten that Gunpow- 
der Plot,— 
And he won't recall it till ten the next 
morning. 



THE OLD GOVERNMENT CLERK. I9 

A day must be near when, in pitiful 
case, 
He will drop from his Branch, like a 
fruit more than mellow ; 
Is he yet to be found in his usual place ? 
Or is he already forgotten? poor 
fellow ! 

If still at his duty he soon will arrive ; 
He passes this turning because it is 
shorter ; 
He always is here as the clock's going 
five 
—Where is he? . . . Ah, it is 
chiming the quarter ! 

1856. 



THE PILGRIMS OF PALL MALL. 

Her eyes and her hair 

Are siij>erb ; 
She stands in desj>air 

On ike kerb. 
Quick, stranger, advance 

To her aid : — 
She's across, with a glajtce 

Vou^re rejiaid. 
She's fair, and you're tall, 

fal-lal-la I— 
What will come of it all? 

Chi lo sa ! 
Cupid on the Crossing. 

My little friend, so small, so neat, 
Whom years ago I used to meet 

In Pall Mall daily, 
How cheerily you tript away 
To work, it might have been to play, 

You tript so gaily. 

And Time trips too ! This moral means 
You then were midway in the teens 



THE PILGRIMS OF PALL MALL. 21 

That I was crowning ; 
We never spoke, but when I smiled 
At morn or eve, I know, dear Child, 

You were not frowning. 

Each morning that we met, I think 
One sentiment us two did link. 

Not joy, nor sorrow ; 
And then at eve, experience-taught. 
Our hearts were lighter for the thought, — 

We meet to-morrow / 

And you were poor, so poor ! and why ? 
How kind to come, it was for my 

Especial grace meant ! 
Had you a chamber near the stars, — 
A bird, — some treasured plants in jars. 

About your casement ? 

Often I wander up and down. 

When morning bathes the silent town 

In dewy glory 
Perhaps, unwitting, I have heard 
Your thrilling-toned canary-bird 

From that third story. 



22 POEMS OF FREDERICK LOCKER. 

I've seen some change since last we 

met — 
A patient little seamstress yet, 

On small wage striving, 
Have you a Lilliputian spouse ? 
And do you dwell in some doll's 
house ? — 
Is baby thriving ? 

My heart grows chill ! Can soul like 

thine. 
Weary of this dear World of mine, 

Have loosed its fetter, 
To find a world, whose promised bliss 
Is better than the best of this ? — 

And is it better ? 

Sometimes to Pall Mall I repair, 
And see the damsels passing there ; 

But if I try to . . . 
To get one glance, they look dis- 
creet. 
As though they'd some one else to 
meet : — 
As have not / too ? 



THE PILGRIMS OF PALL MALL. 23 

Yet Still I often think upon 

Our many meetings, come and gone, 

July — December ! 
Now let us make a tryst, and when. 
Dear little soul, we meet again, 
In some serener sphere, why then 

Thy friend remember, 

1856. 



MANY YEARS AFTER. 

I SAW some books exposed for sale — 
Some dear, and some — drama and 
tale— 

As dear as any : 
A few, perhaps more orthodox 
Or torn, were tumbled in a box — 

" All these a pettny.^^ 

I open'd one at hazard, but 

Its leaves tho' soil'd were still uncut ; 

And yet before 
I'd read a page, I felt indeed 
A wish to cut that leaf, and read 

Some pages more. 

A poet sang of what befel 
When, years before, he'd paced Pall 
Mall : 



MANY YEARS AFTER. 2$ 

While walking thus — 
A boy — he'd met a maiden. (Then 
Fair women all were brave, and men 

Were virtuous !) 

They oft had met, he wonder'd why ; 
He praised her sprightly bearing. (I 

Believe he meant it :) 
No word had pass'd, but if he smiled 
Her eyes had seem'd to say (poor 
child !) 

" I don't resent ity 

And then this poet mused and grieved. 
And spoke some kindly words, relieved 

By kindlier jest : 
Then he, with sad, prophetic glance. 
Bethought him she, ere then, perchance, 

Had found her rest. 

Then I was minded how my Joy 
Sometimes had told me of a boy 

With curly head — 
" You know," she'd laugh (she then 
was well !) 



26 POEMS OF FREDERICK LOCKER. 

" I used to meet him in Pall Mall— 

Ere I was wed." 
And then, in fun, she'd vow *' Good 

lack, 
I'll go there now, and fetch thee back 

At least a curl ! " 
She once was here, now she is gone I — 
And so, you see, my wife was yon 

Bright little girl. 

I am not one for shedding tears — 
That boy's now dead, or bow'd with 
years— 
But see — sometimes 
He'd thought of Her .^— that made me 

weep ; 
That's why I bought and why I keep 
His book of rhymes. 



TEMPORA MUTANTUR ! 

He dropt a tear on Susan's bier, 

He seenCd a most despairing siuain ; 
But bluer sky brought ne7ver tie. 

And — would he wish her back again ? 
The mojnefitsjly, and when we die. 

Will Philly Thistletop cojnplain? 
She'll cry and sigh, and — dry her eye. 

And let herself be wodd again. 

A Kind Providence, 

Yes, here, once more a traveller, 

I find the Angel Inn, 
Where landlord, maids, and serving- 
men 

Receive me with a grin : 
Surely they can't remember Me, 

My hair is grey and scanter ; 
I'm changed, so changed since I was 
here — 

O tempora niutantur I 

The Angel's not much alter'd since 
The happy month of June, 



28 POEMS OF FREDERICK LOCKER. 

That brought me here with Pamela 

To spend our honeymoon. 
Ah me, I even recollect 

The shape of this decanter ! — 
We've since been both mu^h put about— 

tempora mutantur / 

Ay, there's the clock, and looking- 
glass 
Reflecting me again ; 
She vow'd her Love was very fair, 

1 see I'm very plain. 

And there's that daub of Prince Leeboo : 

'Twas Pamela's fond banter 
To fancy it resembled me — 

O tempora mutantur ! 

The curtains have been dyed j but there, 

Unbroken, is the same, 
The very same crack'd pane of glass 

On which I scratch'd her name. 
Yes, there's her tiny flourish still ; 

It used to so enchant her 
To link two happy names in one— 

O tempora mutantur / 



TEMPORA MUTANTUR ! 29 

What brought this pilgrim here f and 
why 

Was Pamela away f 
It may be she had found her grave y 

Or he had found her gay. 
The fairest fade y the best of men 

Have met with a supplanter ; 
I wish that I could like this cry 

Of tempora mutantur I 

1856. 



CIRCUMSTANCE. 

THE ORANGE. 

**Ai Brighton, just a year ago. 

As I was leaving maison mutton, 
My scarf got caught^ it zfe:t'd me so, 

On that tall Captain Rose''s button. 
I thought he'd think me too inane 

And a7ukivard that September sunny ^ 
And now Sej>tember' s come again ! 
And now 7ve're married .'~ain^ t it funny ?" 

Extract from Mrs. Rose's Diary. 

It ripen'd by the river banks, 

Where, mask and moonlight aid- 
ing, 
Dons Bias and Juan play their pranks, 

Dark Donnas serenading. 

By Moorish damsel it was pluck'd, 
Beneath the golden day there ; 

By swain 'twas then in London suck'd— ' 
Who flung the peel away there. 



CIRCUMSTANCE. 31 

He could not know in Pimlico, 

As little she in Seville, 
That /should reel upon that peel, 

And — wish them at the devil. 

1856. 



ARCADIA. 

Ves, Forttttie deserves to be chidden^ 

It is a coincidence queer- 
Whenever one ivaftts to be hidden 

Some blockhead is sure to appear ! 

The healthy-wealthy-wise affirm 
That early birds obtain the worm, — 

(The worm rose early too !) 
Who scorns his couch should glean by 

rights 
A world of pleasant sounds and sights 

That vanish with the dew. 

Bright Phosphor, from his watch re- 
leased. 
Now fading from the purple east, 

As morning gets the stronger ; — 
The comely cock that vainly strives 
To crow from sleep his drowsy wives. 

Who would be dozing longer. 



ARCADIA. 3J 

Uxorious Chanticleer— And hark 
Upraise thine eyes, and find the lark, 

The matutine musician 
Who heavenward soars on rapture's 

wings, 
Sought, yet unseen— who mounts and 
sings 
In musical derision. 

From sea-girt pile, where nobles dwell, 
A daughter waves her sire Farewell 

Across the sunlit water : 
All these were heard or seen by one 
Who stole a march upon that sun 

And then upon that daughter. 

This dainty maid, the country's pride, 
A white lamb trotting at her side, 

Had tript it through the park ; 
A fond and gentle foster-dam. 
Maybe she slumber'd with her lamb, 

Thus rising with the lark. 

The lambkin frisk'd, the lady fain 
Would coax him back, she call'd in 



34 POEMS OF FREDERICK LOCKER. 

The rebel proved unruly ; 
The sun came streaming o'er the lake ;— 
One followed for the maid's dear sake, 

A happy fellow truly. 

The maid gave chase, the lambkin ran 
As only woolly truant can 

Who never felt a crook ; 
But stayed at length, as if disposed 
To drink, where tawny sands disclosed 

The margin of a brook. 

His mistress, who had followed fast, 
Cried, '* Little rogue, you're caught at 
last; 
You've made me lose my shoe ! " 
She then the wanderer convey'd 
Where kindly shrubs, in branching 
shade, 
Were screen and shelter too : 

And timidly she glanced around. 
All fearful lest the slightest sound 

Might mortal footfall be ; 
Then shrinkingly she stept aside 



ARCADIA. 35 

One moment — and her garter tied 
The truant to a tree. 

Perhaps the world would like to know 
The hue of this enchanting bow, 

And if 'twere silk or laced ; 
No, not from him ! Be pleased to think 
It might be either — blue or pink ; 

'Twas tied with maiden taste. 

Suffice it that the child was fair 
As Una, blythe, with golden hair, 

And come of high degree ; 
And though her feet were pure from 

stain, 
She turned her to the brook again, ^^ 

And laved them dreamingly. -J« jE3H^5 



yoL. 



Awhile she sat in maiden mood. 
And watched the shadows from 
wood, 
That varied on the stream ; IS THE 

And as each pretty foot she dipp'd, 
The little waves rose crystal-lipp'd PRnPF' RTV^ 



In welcome, as 'twould seem. 



OF THE 



Mii Slate 



36 POEMS OF FREDERICK LOCKER. 

Yet reveries are fleeting things, 
That come and go on whimsy wings ; 

As kindly fancy taught her, 
The Fair her tender day-dream nursed ; 
But when the hght-blown bubble burst, 

She wearied of the water ; 

Betook her to the spot where, yet, 
Safe tether'd lay her captured pet, 

To roving tastes a martyr ; 
But all at once she spied a change, 
And scream'd (it seem'd so very 
strange !) — 

Cried Echo, Whereas my garter ? , . 

The Lady led her lambkin home I 
Maybe she thought, "No more we'll 
roam 

At peep of day together ; " 
Well, if they do, or if they don't. 
It's pretty clear that roam she won't 

Without an extra tether. 

A pure white stone will mark this 
morn j 



ARCADIA. 37 

He wears a prize, one gladly worn, 

Love's gage, though not intended j 
And let him wear it near his heart, 
Till sun, and moon, and stars depart, 
And chivalry has ended. 

Dull World ! He now resigns to you 
The tinsel star, and ribbon blue. 

That pride for folly barters : 
He'll bear his cross amid your jars, 
His ribbon prize, and thank his stars 

He does not crave your garters. 

1849. 



THE CASTLE IN THE AIR. 



The old, old tale ! ay, there's the STnart '. 
Her heart, or ivhat she calCd her heart. 

Was hard as granite : 
Who breaks a heart and then omits 
To gather up the broken bits. 
Is heartless, Janet. 



You shake your saucy curls, and vow 
I build no airy castles now ; 
You smile, and you are thinking too, 
He's nothing else on earth to do. 

It needs romance, my Lady Fair, 
To build a Castle in the Air : 
Ethereal brick, and rainbow beam, 
The gossamer of fancy's dream ; 
Much, too, the architect may lack, 
Who labours in the Zodiac, 
To rear what I, from chime to chime, 
Attempted once upon a time. 



THE CASTLE IN THE AIR. 39 

My Castle was a gay retreat 

In Air, that rather gusty shire, 
A cherub's model country seat, — 

Could model cherub such require. 
Nor twinge nor tax existence tortured, 
Even the cherub spared my orchard ! 
No worm destroyed the gourd I planted, 
And showers came when rain was wanted. 
I own'd a tract of purple mountain, 
A sweet mysterious haunted fountain, 
A terraced lawn, a summer lake. 

By sun- or moon-beam always burn- 
ish'd ; 
And then my cot, by some mistake, 

Unlike most cots, was neatly fur- 
nish'd. — 
A trellis'd porch, a pictured hall, 
A Hebe laughing from the wall ; 

Vases, Etruscan and Cathay ; 
While under arms and armour wreath'd 
In trophied guise, the marble breathed— 

A peering faun — a startled fay. 

On silken cushion, laced and pearl'd, 
A shaggy pet from Skye was curPd ; 



40 POEMS OF FREDERICK LOCKER. 

While, drowsy-eyed, would dosing swing 
A parrot in his golden ring. 

All this I saw one happy day, 

And more than now I care to name ; 

Here, lately shut, that work-box lay. 
There stood your own embroidery 
frame. 

And over this piano bent 

A Form from some pure region lent. 

Her auburn tresses darkly shone 

In clusters, lovely as your own ; 

And as her fingers touch'd the keys, 

How strangely they resembled these I 

Yes, you, you only. Lady Fair, 

Adorn'd a Castle in the Air, 

Where Life, without the least foundation 

Became a charming occupation. 

We heard with much sublime disdain 

The far-off thunder of Cockaigne ; 

And saw through rifts of silver cloud 

The rolling smoke that hid the crowd. 

With souls released from earthly tethef 

We hymn'd the tender moon together. 



THE CASTLE IN THE AIR. 4I 

Our sympathy from night to noon 
Rose crescent with that crescent moon ; 
The night was briefer than the song, 
And happy as the day was long. 
We lived and loved in cloudless climes, 
And died (in verse) a thousand times 1 

Yes, you, you only, Lady Fair, 
Adorn'd my Castle in the Air. 
Now, tell me, could you dwell content 
In such a baseless tenement ? 
Say, could so delicate a flower 
Exist in such a breezy bower ? 
Because, if you would settle in it, 
'Twere built for love in half a minute. 

What's love? Why love (for two) at 

best 
Is only a delightful jest ; 
But not so nice for one or three, — 
I only wish you'd jest with me. 

You shake your head and wonder why 

A denizen of dear Mayfair 
Should be so silly as to try 



42 POEMS OF FREDERICK LOCKER. 

And build a Castle in the Air. 
^^ I've music, books, and all," you say, 
" To make the gravest lady gay. 
I'm told my essays mark research, 
My sketches have endow'd a church ; 
I've partners who have brilliant parts — 
I've lovers who have broken hearts. 
Poor Polly would not care to fly, 
And Mop, you know, was born in Skye. 
To realise your tete-a-tete 
Might jeopardise a giddy pate; 
Indeed, my much devoted vassal, 
I'm sorry that you've built your Castle I " 

The lady's smile shov/ed no remorse, — 
" My worthless toy has lost its gild* 
ing," 
I murmur'd with pathetic force, 

*' And here's an end of castle-build* 
ing ; " 
Then strode away in mood morose 
To blame the Sage of Careless Close ; 
He trifled with my tale of sorrow, — 
** What's marr'd to-day is made to- 
morrow ; 



THE CASTLE IN THE AIR. 43 

Romance can roam not far from home, 
Knock gently, she must answer soon ; 

I'm sixty-five, and yet I strive 
To hang my garland on the moon." 

1848. 



A WISH. 

To the south of the church, and beneath 
yonder yew, 
A pair of child lovers I've seen ; 
More than once were they there, and 
the years of the two 
When united, might number thirteen. 

They sat by a grave that had never a 
stone 
The name of the dead to determine ; 
It was Life paying Death a brief visit, 
— a known 
And a notable text for a sermon. 

They tenderly prattled ; oh what did 
they say ? 
The turf on that hillock was new. 
Little Friends, could ye know aught of 
death or decay ? 
Could the dead be regardful of you ? 



A WISH. 45 

I wish to believe, and believe it I 
must, 
That there her loved father was laid : 
I wish to believe — I will take it on 
trust — 
That father knew all that they said. 

My Own, you are five, very nearly the 
age 
Of that poor little fatherless child. 
And some day a true-love your heart 
will engage, 
When on earth I my last may have 
smiled. 

Then come to my grave, like a good lit- 
tle lass, 
Where'er it may happen to be ; 
And if any daisies should peer through 
the grass, 
Be sure they are kisses from me. 

And place not a stone to distinguish my 
name. 
For stranger and gossip to see ; 



4-6 POEMS OF FREDERICK LOCKER. 

But come with your lover, as these lev 
ers came, 
And talk to him sweetly of me. 

And while you are smiling, your father 
will smile 
Such a dear little daughter to have ; 
But mind, — oh yes, mind you are happy 
the while — 
/ wish you to visit my grave, 

1856. 



GERALDINE GREEN. 



THE SERENADE. 

J/j>athos should thy bosom, stir 

To tears more sweet than laughter^ 

Then bless its kind interpreter^ 
And love hint ever after I 

Light slumber is quitting 

The eyelids it prest ; 
The fairies are flitting, 

Who charm'd thee to rest. 
Where night dews were falling, 

Now feeds the wild bee ; 
The starling is calling, 

My darling, for thee. 

The wavelets are crisper 
That thrill the shy fern ; 

The leaves fondly whisper, 
*^ We wait thy return." 



48 POEMS OF FREDERICK LOCKER. 

Arise then, and hazy 
Distrust from thee fling, 

For sorrows that crazy- 
To-morrows may bring. 

A vague yearning smote us, 

But wake not to weep ; 
My bark, Love, shall float us 

Across the still deep, 
To isles where the lotus 
Erst lulled thee to sleep. 
1861. 

II. 

MY LIFE IS A . 



Fair Emma mocks my trials^ 
She pokes her jokes in Sevenoaks 
At me in Seven Dials. — 

At Worthing, an exile from Geraldine 

G— , 
How aimless, how wretched an exile is 

he! 
Promenades are not even prunella and 

leather 
To lovers, if lovers can't foot them 

together. 



GERALDINE GREEN. 49 

He flies the parade, by the ocean he 
stands ; 

He traces a " Geraldine G." on the 
sands ; 

Only '^G.!" though her loved patro- 
nymic is " Green," — 

" I will not betray thee, my own Geral- 
dine." 

The fortunes of men have a time and a 

tide, 
And Fate, the old Fury, will not be 

denied ; 
That name was, of course, soon wiped 

out by the sea, — 
She jilted the exile, did Geraldine G. 

They meet, but they never have spoken 

since that ; 
He hopes she is happy— he knows she 

is fat ; 
S/ie, wooed on the shore, now is wed in 

the Strand, — 
And /—it was I wrote her name on the 

sand. 
1854. 



VANITY FAIR. 

'' Vanitas vanitatum " has rung in the 

ears 
Of gentle and simple for thousands of 

years ; 
The wail still is heard, yet its notes never 

scare 
Either simple or gentle from Vanity 

Fair. 

I often hear people abusing it, yet 
There the young go to learn and the old 

to forget ; 
The mirth may be feigning, the sheen 

may be glare. 
But the gingerbread's gilded in Vanity 

Fair. 

Old Dives there rolls in his chariot, but 
mind 



VANITY FAIR. 51 

Atra Cura is up with the lackeys be- 
hind ; 

Joan trudges with Jack, — are the Sweet- 
hearts aware 

Of the trouble that waits them in Vanity- 
Fair ? 

We saw them all go, and we something 

may learn 
Of the harvest they reap when we see 

them return. 
The tree was enticing, its branches are 

bare,— 
Heigho for the promise of Vanity Fair. 

That stupid old Dives, once honest 

enough. 
His honesty sold for star, ribbon, and 

stuff; 
And Joan's pretty face has been clouded 

with care 
Since Jack bought her ribbons at Vanity 

Fair. 

Gontemptible Dives! too credulous 
Joan! 



52 POEMS OF FREDERICK LOCKER. 

Yet we all have a Vanity Fair of our 

own ; 
My son, you have yours, but you need 

not despair — 
I own I've a weakness for Vanity Fair. 

Philosophy halts — wise counsels are 

vain, 
We go, we repent, we return there 

again ; 
To-night you will certainly meet with us 

there — 
So come and be merry in Vanity Fair. 

1852. 



BRAMBLE-RISE. 



These days ivere soon the days of yore / 

Six sujnmers pass^ and then 
Thai inuszn£ man would see once more 

The fountain in the glen. 

The Russet Pitchek. 



What changes meet my wistful eyes 
In quiet little Bramble-Rise, 

The pride of all the shire ; 
How altered is each pleasant nook ; — 
And used the dumpy church to look 

So dumpy in the spire ? 

This village is no longer mine ; 
And though the Inn has changed its 
sign, 

The beer may not be stronger ; 
The river, dwindled by degrees, 
Is now a brook, the cottages 

Are cottages no longer. 



54 POEMS OF FREDERICK LOCKER. 

The mud is brick, the thatch is slate, 
The pound has tumbled out of date, 

And all the trees are stunted : 
Surely these thistles once grew figs, 
These geese were swans, and once these 
pigs 

More musically grunted. 

Where boys and girls pursued their 

sports 
A locomotive puffs and snorts. 
And gets my malediction ; 
The turf is dust — the elves are fled- - 
The ponds have shrunk — and tastes have 

spread 
To photograph and fiction. 

Ah, there's a face I know again. 
There's Patty trotting down the lane 

To fill her pail with water ; 
Yes, Patty ! but I fear she's not 
The tricksy Pat that used to trot. 

But Patty,— Patty's daughter ! 

And has she, too, outlived the spells 
Of breezy hills and silent dells 



BRAMBLE-RISE. 55 

Where childhood loved to ramble ? 
Then life was thornless to our ken, 
And, Bramble-Rise, thy hills were then 

A rise without a bramble. 

Whence comes the change ? 'Twere 

simply told ; 
For some grow wise, and some grow 
cold, 
And all feel time and trouble : 
If life an empty bubble be, 
How sad for those who cannot see 
The rainbow in the bubble ! 

And senseless too, for Madame Fate 
Is not the fickle reprobate 

That moody sages thought her ; 
My heart leaps up, and I rejoice. 
As falls upon my ear thy voice, 

My littl-e friskful daughter. 

Come hither, fairy, perch on these 
Thy most unworthy father's knees. 

And tell him all about it. 
Are dolls a sham ? Can men be base ? 



56 POEMS OF FREDERICK LOCKER. 

When gazing on thy blessed face 
Fm quite prepared to doubt it. 

Though life is call'd a doleful jaunt, 
Though earthly joys, the wisest grant, 

Have no enduring basis ; 
It's pleasant in this lower sphere, 
To find with Puss, my daughter dear, 

A little cool oasis ! 

Oh, may'st thou some day own, sweet 

elf, 
A pet just like thy winsome self, 

Her sanguine thoughts to borrow ; 
Content to use her brighter eyes. 
Accept her childish ecstasies, — ■ 

If need be, share her sorrow. 

The wisdom of thy prattle cheers 

This heart ; and when, outworn in years. 

And homeward I am starting, 
Lead me, my darling, gently down 
To life's dim strand : the skies may 
frown, — 
But weep not for our parting. 
April, 1857. 



OLD LETTERS. 

Have sorrows come ? Has pleasure sjied ? 

Is earthly bliss an empty bubble ? 
Is some one dull, or something dead? 

O may /, mayn't I share your trouble i 
* * 

Ay, so it is, and is it fair? 

Poor 7nen {your elders and your betters /) 
Who can't look j>retty in despair. 

Feel quite as sad about their letters. 

Her Letters. 

Old letters ! wipe away the tear 
For lines so pale, so vainly worded ; 

A Pilgrim finds his journey here 

Since first his youthful loins were 
girded. 

Yes, here are wails from Clapham 
Grove ; 
How could philosophy expect us 
To live with Dr. Wise, and love 

Rice pudding and the Greek De- 
lectus ? 



58 POEMS OF FREDERICK LOCKER. 

How Strange to commune with the 
Dead! 
Dead joys, dead loves ; and wishes 
thwarted : 
Here's cruel proof of friendships fled, 
And, sad enough, of friends departed. 

Yes, here's the offer that I wrote 

In '^2 to Lucy Diver ; 
And here John Wylie's begging note, — 

He never paid me back a stiver. 

Here's news from Paternoster Row ; 

How mad I was when first I learnt it ! 
They would not take my Book, and now 

I wish to goodness I had burnt it. 

A ghastly bill ! " I disapproved 

And yet She help'd me to defray it : — 

What tokens of a mother's love ! 
O bitter thought, — I can't repay it. 

And here's a score of notes at last. 
With ''Love'' and ''Dove;' and 
" Sever ^ Never "y 



OLD LETTERS. 59 

Though hope, though passion may be 
past, 
Their perfume seems — ah, sweet as 
ever. 

A human heart should beat for two, 
Whate'er may say your single scorn- 
ers ; 

And all the hearths I ever knew 
Had got a pair of chimney-corners. 

See here a double violet — 
Two locks of hair — A deal of scandal ; 
I'll burn what only brings regret — 
Kitty, go, fetch a lighted candle. 

1856. 



MY FIRST-BORN. 

of a worthless old Block she's the dearest of Chijf>s^ 

For what nonsense she talks when she opens hef 

lips. 

Little Pitcher. 

** He shan't be their namesake, the 
rather 

That both are such opulent men : 
His name shall be that of his father, 

My Benjamin, shorten'd to Ben, 

" Yes, BeUy though it cost him a portion 
In each of my relatives' wills : 

I scorn such baptismal extortion — 
(That creaking of boots must be 
Squills.) 

"It is clear, though his means may be 
narrow. 
This infant his Age will adorn ; 
I shall send him to Oxford from Har- 
row, — 
I wonder how soon he'll be born ! " 



MY FIRST-BORN. 6l 

A spouse thus was airing his fancies 
Below, 'twas a labour of love, 

And was calmly reflecting on Nancy's 
More practical labour above ; 

Yet while it so pleased him to ponder, 

Elated, at ease, and alone ; 
That pale, patient victim up yonder 

Had budding delights of her own : 

Sweet thoughts, in their essence diviner 
Than paltry ambition and pelf; 

A cherub, no babe will be finer ! 
Invented and nursed by herself; 

At breakfast, and dining, and tea-ing, 
An appetite naught can appease. 

And quite a Young-Reasoning-Being 
When call'd on to yawn and to sneeze. 

What cares that heart, trusting and 
tender, 

For fame or avuncular wills ? 
Except for the name and the gender, 

She's almost as tranquil as Squills. 



62 POEMS OF FREDERICK LOCKER. 

That father, in reverie centred, 

Dumbfounder'd, his thoughts in a 
whirl, 
Heard Squills, as the creaking boots 
enter'd. 
Announce that his Boy was— a Girl. 



THE WIDOW'S MITE. 

A Widow — she had only one ! 
A puny and decrepit son ; 

But, day and night, 
Though fretful oft, and weak and small, 
A loving child, he was her all — 

The Widow's Mite. 

The Widow's Mite — ay, so sustain'd, 
She battled onward, nor complain'd 

Tho' friends were fewer : 
And while she toil'd for daily fare, 
A little crutch upon the stair 

Was music to her. 

I saw her then — and now I see 

That, though resign'd and cheerful, she 

Has sorrow'd much : 
She has, He gave it tenderly, 
Much faith ; and, carefully laid by, 

A little crutch. 
1856. 



ST. GEORGE'S, HANOVER 
SQUARE. 

Why little Di should throiv me over 
I never knew, — / can!t discover^ 

Or even guess ; 
Maybe Sttzitk^s lyrics she decided 
Were sweeter than the siueetest I did, — 
/ acquiesce. 

She pass'd up the aisle on the arm ol 

her sire, 
A delicate lady in bridal attire, 

Fair emblem of virgin simplicity ; 
Half London was there, and, my word, 

there were few 
That stood by the altar, or hid in a pew, 
But envied Lord Nigel's felicity. 

Beautiful Bride ! —So meek in thy splen- 
dour, 

So frank in thy love, and its trusting 
surrender, 
Departing you leave us the town 
dim! 



ST. GEORGE'S, HANOVER SQUARE. 65 

May happiness wing to thy bower, un- 
sought. 

And may Nigel, esteeming his bliss as 
he ought, 
Prove worthy thy worship, — con- 
found him 1 



A HUMAN SKULL. 

A HUMAN Skull! I bought it passing 
cheap, 
Indeed 'twas dearer to its first em- 
ployer ! 
I thought mortality did well to keep 
Some mute memento of the Old De- 
stro)er. 

Time was, some may have prized its 
blooming skin ; 
Here lips were woo'd, perhaps, in 
transport tender ; 
Some may have chuck'd what was a 
dimpled chin, 
And never had my doubt about its 
gender. 

Did she live yesterday or ages back ? 
What colour were the eyes when 
bright and waking ? 



A HUMAN SKULL. (i'] 

And were your ringlets fair, or brown, 
or black, 
Poor little head ! that long has done 
with aching ? 

It may have held (to shoot some random 
shots) 
Thy brains, Eliza Fry! or Baron 
Byron's ; 
The wits of Nelly Gwynn, or Doctor 
Watts- 
Two quoted bards. Two philanthropic 
sirens. 

But this I trust is clearly understood ; 

If man or woman, if adored or hated — 
Whoever own'd this Skull was not so 
good. 
Nor quite so bad as many may have 
stated. 

IVho love can need no special type of 
Death ; 
Death steals his icy hand where Love 
reposes ; 



68 POEMS OF FREDERICK LOCKER. 

Alas for love, alas for fleeting breath — 
Immortelles bloom with Beauty's bridal 
roses. 

O true-love mine, what lines of care are 
these ? 
The heart still lingers with its golden 
hours. 
But fading tints are on the chestnut- 
trees, 
And where is all that lavish wealth 
of flowers ? 

The end is near. Life lacks what once 

it gave. 
Yet death has promises that call for 

praises ; 
A very worthless rogue may dig the 

grave. 
But hands unseen will dress the turf 

with daisies. 

i860. 



TO MY OLD FRIEND POSTUMUS. 
(J. G.) 

And, like yon clocke, when twelve shalle sound 

To call our soules away. 
Together may our hands lefound^ 

An earnest that wepraie. 

My Friend, our few remaining years 

Are hastening to an end, 
They glide away, and lines are here 

That time can never mend ; 
Thy blameless life avails thee not, — 

My Friend, my dear old Friend ! 

Death lifts a burthen from the poor, 

And brings the weary rest, 
But oft from earth's green orchard trees 

The canker takes our best — 
The Well-beloved! she bloom'd, and 
now 

The turf is on her breast. 



70 POEMS OF FREDERICK LOCKER. 

Alas for love ! This peaceful home ! 

The darling at my knee ! 
My own dear wife ! Thyself, old Friend ! 

And must it come to me, 
That any face shall fill my place 

Unknown to them and thee ? 

Ay, all too vainly are we screen'd 

From peril, day and night ; 
Those awful rapids must be shot, 

Our shallop will be slight ; — 
O pray that then we may descry 

Some cheering beacon-light. 



LOULOU AND HER CAT. 

I ''in nervous too^ I hate a cat ! 
Exiretnely so ; but, as for that. 
It is not only cat or rat. 
Or haunted room, or ghostly chat. 
That makes my heart go pit-a-j>at. 

Good pastry is vended 

In Cite Fadette ; 
Maison Pons can make splendid 

Brioche and galette* 

M'sieu Pons is so fat that 

He's laid on the shelf; 
Madame had a cat that 

Was fat as herself. 

Long hair, soft as satin, 

A musical purr, 
'Gainst the window she'd flatten 

Her delicate fur. 



72 POEMS OF FREDERICK LOCKER. 

I drove Lou to see what 
These worthies were at, — 

Iji rapture, cried she, " What 
An exquisite cat ! 

" What whiskers ! She's purring 

All over. Regale 
Our eyes, Puss^ by stirring 

Your feathery tail ! 

" M^sieu Pons, will you sell her ? " 

" Mafemme est sortie, 
Your offer I'll tell her ; 

But — will she ? " says he. 

Yet Pons was persuaded 
To part with the prize : 

(Our bargain was aided, 
My Lou, by your eyes !) 

From his legitime save him, — 

My spouse I prefer, — 
For I warrant his gave him 

Un mauvais quart d^heure. 



LOULOU AND HER CAT. 73 

I'm giving a pleasant 

Grimalkin to Lou, — 
Ah, Puss J what a present 

I'm giving to you ! 



THE NYMPH OF THE WELL. 

Whoever shall ivin you, — a Fan or a Phcebe, 
Of course of all beauty she must be the belle ; 

If at Tunbridge you chance to fall in with a Hebe, 
You 7vill not fall out -with a draught from the 
Well! 

She smiled as she gave him a draught 
from the springlet, — 
O Tunbridge, thy waters are bitter, 
alas! 
But love has an ambush in dimple and 
ringlet ; 
*' Thy health, pretty maiden ! " He 
emptied the glass. 

He saw, and he loved her, nor cared 
he to quit her ; 
The oftener he came there, the 
longer he stay'd ; 
Indeed though the spring was exceed- 
ingly bitter. 
We found him eternally pledging the 
maid. 



THE NYMPH OF THE WELL. 75 

A preux chevalier^ and but lately a 
cripple, 
He met with his hurt where a regi- 
ment fell ; 
But worse was he wounded when stay- 
ing to tipple 
A bumper to '' Phcebe, the Nymph 
of the Well." 

Some swore he was old, that his laurels 
were faded, 
All vow'd she was vastly too nice for 
a nurse ; 
But love never looks on the matter as 
they did, — 
She took the brave soldier for better 
or worse. 

And here is the home of her fondest 
election. 
The walls may be worn, but the ivy is 
green ; 
And here she has tenderly twined her 
affection 
Around a true soldier who bled for 
the Queen. 



"J^ POEMS OF FREDERICK LOCKER. 

See, yonder he sits, where the church- 
bells invite us, 
What child is that spelling the epi- 
taphs there ? 
'Tis the joy of his age ; and may love 
so requite us, 
When time shall have broken, or 
sickness, or care. 

And when he is gone, thro' her widow- 
hood lowly 
He'll still live as Chivalry's Light to 
her son : 
But only on days that are high and are 
holy 
She will show him the Cross that her 
hero had won. 

So taught, he will rather take after his 
father, 
And wear a long sword to our ene- 
mies' loss ; 
And some day or other he'll bring to 
his mother 
Victoria's gift — the Victoria Cross ! 



THE NYMPH OF THE WELL. 77 

And then will her darling, like all good 
and true ones, 
Console and sustain her — the weak 
and the strong — 
And some day or other two black eyes 
or blue ones 
Will smile on his path as he jour- 
neys along. 



HER QUIET RESTING-PLACE. 

At Susaft! s name the fancy j>lays 
With chiming thoughts of early days. 

And hearts umvrung : 
When all too fair our future smiled^ 
When she was MirtKs adopted child^ 

And I ivas young. 

* * * * 

And summer smiles, hut sununer spells 
Can never charm ivhere sori'ow dwells — 

No juai den fair, 
Or sad, or gay ^ the passer sees, — 
And still the much-loved elder trees 

Throw shadows there. 

Her quiet resting-place is far away ; 
None dwelling there can tell you her 
sad story. 
The stones are mute. The stones could 
only say, 
'^ A humble spirit pass'd away to 
glory:' 

She loved the murmur of this mighty 
town ; 



HER QUIET RESTING-PLACE. 79 

The lark rejoiced her from its lattice 

prison ; 
A streamlet lulls her now, the bird has 

flown, 
Some dust is waiting there — a soul has' 

risen. 



No city smoke to stain the heather 
bells ; 
Sigh, gentle winds, around my lone 
love sleeping ; — 
She bore her burthen here, but now she 
dwells 
Where scorner never came, and none 
are weeping. 

My name was falter'd with her parting 
breath ; 
These arms were round my darling at 
the latest ; 
All scenes of death are woe, but painful 
death 
In those we dearly love is woe the 
greatest. 



8o POEMS OF FREDERICK LOCKER. 

I could not die : He willed it otherwise ; 
My lot is here, and sorrow, wearing 
older, 
Weighs down the heart, but does not 
fill the eyes, — 
Even my friends may think that I am 
colder. 

But when at times I steal away from 
these, 
To find her grave, and pray to be for- 
given. 
And when I watch beside her on my 
knees, 
I think I am a little nearer heaven. 

1861. 



REPLY TO A LETTER ENCLOSING 
A LOCK OF HAIR. 

She laugKd—she climb' d the giddy height I— 

I held that climber small; 
I even held her rather tight. 

For fear that she should fall. 
A dozen girls nvere chirping rounds 

Like five- and-twenty linnets ;— 
I must have held her, Pll be bounds 

Some five-and-twenty minutes. 

Yes, you were false, and, if I'm free, 

I still would be the slave of yore ; 
Then, join'd, our years were thirty-three, 

And now, — yes, now I'm thirty-four. 
And though you were not learned— well, 

I was not anxious you should grow 
so;— 
I trembled once beneath her spell 

Whose spelling was extremely so-so. 

Bright season ! why will Memory 
Still haunt the path our rambles 
took, — 



82 POEMS OF FREDERICK LOCKER. 

The sparrow's nest that made you cry, 
The lilies captured in the brook ? 

I'd lifted you from side to side, 

(You seem'd as light as that poor 
sparrow ;) 

I know who wish'd it twice as wide, 
I think yott thought it rather narrow. 

Time was, indeed a little while. 

My pony could your heart compel ; 
And once, beside the meadow-stile, 

I thought you loved me just as well ; 
I'd kiss'd your cheek ; in sweet surprise 

Your troubled gaze said plainly, 
'^ Should he ? " 
But doubt soon fled those daisy eyes, — 

" He could not mean to vex me, could 
he ? " 

The brightest eyes are soonest sad. 
But your rose cheek, so lightly sway'd, 

Could ripple into dimples glad ; 

For oh, fair friend, what mirth we 
made ! 

The brightest tears are soonest dried, 



REPLY TO A LETTER. 83 

But your young love and dole were 
stable ; 
You wept when dear old Rover died, 
You wept — and dress'd your dolls in 
sable. 

As year succeeds to year, the more 

Imperfect life's fruition seems ; 
Our dreams, as baseless as of yore, 

Are not the same enchanting dreams. 
The girls I love now vote me slow— 

How dull the boys who once seem'd 
witty ! 
Perhaps Vm growing old, I know 

I'm still romantic, more's the pity. 

Vain the regret — to few, perchance, 

Unknown, and profitless to all : 
The wisely-gay, as years advance. 

Are gaily-wise. Whate'er befall, 
We'll laugh at folly, whether seen 

Under a chimney or a steeple ; 
At yours, at mine — our own, I 
mean. 

As well as that of other people. 



84 POEMS OF FREDERICK LOCKER. 

I'm fond of fun, the mental dew 

Where wit, and truth, and ruth are 
blent ; 
And yet I've known a prig or two, 

Who, wanting all, were all content ! 
To say I hate such dismal men 

Might be esteem'd a strong assertion; 
If I've blue devils, now and then, 

I make them dance for my diversion. 

And here's your letter debonair — 

^^ My friend y my dear old frie7td of 
yore" 
And is this curl your daughter's hair ? 

I've seen the Titian tint before. 
Are we the pair that used to pass 

Long days beneath the chestnut 
shady ? 
Then you were such a pretty lass — 

I'm told you're now as fair a lady. 

I've laugh'd to hide the tear I shed, 
As when the Jester's bosom swells, 

And mournfully he shakes his head, 
We hear the jingle of his bells. 



REPLY TO A LETTER. 85 

A jesting vein your poet vex'd, 

And this poor rhyme, the Fates de- 
termine, 

"Without a parson or a text, 

Has proved a rather prosy sermon. 

1859. 



THE BEAR PIT. 

IN THE ZOOLOGICAL GARDENS. 

It seems that J>oor Bruin has never had ^eace 
' Tivixt bald men in Bethel, and wise men in grease. 

Old Adage. 

We liked the bear's serio-comical face, 
As he loll'd with a lazy, a lumbering 

grace ; 
Said Slyboots to me (just as if she had 

none), 
" Papa, let's give Bruin a bit of your 

bun." 

Says I, " A plum bun might please wist- 
ful old Bruin, 

He can't eat the stone that the cruel 
boy threw in ; 

Stick yours on the point of mamma's 
parasol. 

And then he will climb to the top of the 
pole. 



THE BEAR PIT. 87 

*'Some bears have got two legs, and 

some have got more, 
Be good to old bears if they've no legs 

or four ; 
Of duty to age you should never be 

careless, — 
My dear, I am bald, and I soon may be 

hairless ! 

" The gravest aversion exists among 

bears 
From rude forward persons who give 

themselves airs, — 
We know how some graceless young 

people were maul'd 
For plaguing a Prophet, and calling him 

bald. 

" Strange ursine devotion ! Their dan- 
cing-days ended, 

Bears die to ^remove' what, in life, 
they defended : 

They succour'd the Prophet, and, since 
that affair. 

The bald have a painful regard for the 
bear." 



88 POEMS OF FREDERICK LOCKER. 

My MORAL—Small people may read itj 

and run. 
(The child has my moral,— the bear has 

my bun.) 



MY NEIGHBOUR ROSE. 

And knavves and luehches, less adoe. 

My neighbour is astir : 
By cockke and pie she lutes it too 

Behynde the silver fir ! 

Though walls but thin our hearths 

divide, 
We're strangers, dwelling side by side ; 
How gaily all your days must glide 

Unvex'd by labour. 
Fve seen you weep, and could have 

wept ; 
I've heard you sing, (and might have 

slept!) ., 

Sometimes I hear your chimney swept, t-f^r 
My charming neighbour ! 

Your pets are mine. Pray what may 

ail 
The pup, once eloquent of tail? 
I wonder why your nightingale 



90 POEMS OF FREDERICK LOCKER. 

Is mute at sunset. 
Your puss, demure and pensive, seems 
Too fat to mouse. Much she esteems 
Yon sunny wall, and, dozing, dreams 

Of mice she once ate. 

Our tastes agree. I dote upon 
Frail jars, turquoise and celadon, 
The Wedding March of Mendelssohn, 

And Penseroso. 
When sorely tempted to purloin 
YoMY pieta of Marc Antoine, 
Fair virtue doth fair play enjoin, 

Fair Virtuoso ! 

At times an Ariel, cruel-kind, 

Will kiss my lips, and stir your blind, 

And whisper low, " She hides behind ; 

Thou art not lonely." 
The tricksy sprite would erst assist 
At hush'd Verona's moonlight tryst ;— 
Sweet Capulet, thou wert not kiss'd 

By light winds only. 

I miss the simple days of yore. 

When two long braids of hair you wore;, 



MY NEIGHBOUR ROSE. 9I 

And chat botte was wonder'd o'er, 

In corner cosy. 
But gaze not back for tales like those : 
It's all in order, I suppose ; 
The Bud is now a blooming Rose, — 

A rosy-posy ! 

Indeed, farewell to bygone years ; 
How wonderful the change appears ; 
For curates now, and cavaliers. 

In turn perplex you : 
The last are birds of feather gay, 
Who swear the first are birds of prey ; 
I'd scare them all had I my way, 

But that might vex you. 

Sometimes I've envied, it is true, 
That hero, joyous twenty-two, 
Who sent bouquets and billets dottXy 

And wore a sabre. 
The rogue ! how close his arm he 

wound 
About her waist, who never frown'd. 
He loves you, Child. Now, is he bound 

To love my neighbovfr ? 



92 POEMS OF FREDERICK LOCKER. 

The bells are ringing. As is meet 
White favours fascinate the street, 
Sweet faces greet me, rueful-sweet 

'Twixt tears and laughter : 
They crowd the door to see her go, 
The bliss of one brings many woe ; 
Oh, kiss the bride, and I will throw 

The old shoe after. 

What change in one short afternoon, 
My own dear neighbour gone, — so soon ! 
Is yon pale orb her honey-moon 

Slow rising hither ? 
O Lady, wan and marvellous ! 
How oft have we held commune thus ; 
Sweet memory shall dwell with us, — 

And joy go with her. 

1861. 



THE OLD OAK-TREE AT HAT- 
FIELD BROADOAK. 

What ? Tell you thai tale ? Come, a tale luith a 

sting 
Would be rather too much of an excellent thing! 
I cafCt J>oini a moral, or sing you the song. 
My Years are too short — and your Ears are too 

long. 

Little Pitcher. 

A MIGHTY growth ! The county side 
Lamented when the Giant died, 

For England loves her trees : 
What misty legends round him cling ; 
How lavishly he once could fling 

His acorns to the breeze ! 

Who struck a thousand roots in fame, 
Who gave the district half its name, 

Will not be soon forgotten : 
Last spring he show'd but one green 

bough, 
The red leaves hang there yet, — and 

now 
His very props are rotten ! 



94 POEMS OF FREDERICK LOCKER. 

Elate, the thunderbolt he braved, 
For centuries his branches waved 

A welcome to the blast ; 
From reign to reign he bore a spell ; 
No forester had dared to fell 

What time has fell'd at last. 

The Monarch wore a leafy crown, — 
And wolves, ere wolves were hunted 
down. 

Found shelter in his gloom ; 
Unnumber'd squirrels frolick'd free. 
Glad music fill'd the gallant Tree 

From stem to topmost bloom. 

It's hard to say, 'twere vain to seek. 
When first he ventured forth, a meek 

Petitioner for dew ; 
No Saxon spade disturb'd his root. 
The rabbit spared the tender shoot. 

And valiantly he grew, 

And show'd some inches from the ground 
When St. Augustine came and found 
Us very proper Vandals : 



THE OLD OAK-TREE. 95 

Then nymphs had bluer eyes than hose. 
England then measured men by blows, 
And measured time by candles. 

The pilgrim bless'd his grateful shade 
Ere Richard led the first crusade ; 

And maidens loved to dance 
Where, boy and man, in summer-time, 
Chaucer once ponder'd o'er his rhyme ; 

And Robin Hood, perchance, 

Stole hither to Maid Marian ; 
(And if they did not come, one can 

At any rate suppose it) ; 
They met beneath the mistletoe, — 
We've done the same, and ought to know 

The reason why they chose it ! 

And this was call'd the Traitor's 

Branch, 
Guy Warwick hung six yeomen stanch 

Along its mighty fork ; 
Uncivil wars for them ! The fair 
Red rose and white still bloom, but 
where 
Are Lancaster and York ? 



96 POEMS OF FREDERICK LOCKER. 

Right mournfully his leaves he shed 
To shroud the graves of England's dead, 

By English falchion slain ; 
And cheerfully, for England's sake, 
He sent his kin to sea with Drake, 

When Tudor humbled Spain. 

While Blake was fighting with the Dutch 
They gave his poor old arms a crutch ; 

And thrice four maids and men ate 
A meal within his rugged bark, 
When Coventry bewitch'd the Park, 

And Chatham swayed the Senate. 

His few remaining boughs were green. 
And dappled sunbeams danced between 

Upon the dappled deer. 
When, clad in black, two mourners met 
To read the Waterloo Gazette, — 

They m^ourn'd their darling here. 

They join'd their boy. The tree at last 
Lies prone, discoursing of the past, 

Some fancy-dreams awaking ; 
At rest, though headlong changes come, 



THE OLD OAK-TREE. 97 

Though nations arm to roll of drum, 
And dynasties are quaking. 

Romantic spot ! By honest pride 
Of old tradition sanctified ; 

My pensive vigil keeping, 
Thy beauty moves me like a spell, 
And thoughts, and tender thoughts, up- 
well, 

That fill my heart to weeping. 
***** 

The Squire affirms with gravest look, 
His Oak goes up to Domesday Book : 

And some say even higher ! 
We rode last week to see the Ruin, 
We love the fair domain it grew in, 

And well we love the Squire. 

A nature loyally controlled. 

And fashion'd in that righteous mould 

Of English gentleman ; 
My child some day will read these 

rhymes. 
She loved her " godpapa " betimes, — 

The little Christian ! 



98 POEMS OF FREDERICK LOCKER. 

I love the Past, its ripe pleasance, 
And lusty thought, and dim romance,- 

Its heart-compelling ditties ; 
But more, these ties, in mercy sent, 
With faith and true affection blent, 
And, wanting them, I were content 

To murmur, " Nunc dimiUis." 

Hallingbury : Aj>ri/, 1859. 



TO MY GRANDMOTHER. 

(SUGGESTED BY A PICTURE BY MR. 
ROMNEY.) 

Under the eljn a rustic seat 
Was jnerriest Susati! s j>et retreat 
To merry make. 

This relative of mine, 
Was she seventy-and-nine 

When she died ? 
By the canvas may be seen 
How she look'd at seventeen, 

As a bride. 

Beneath a summer tree, 
Her maiden reverie 

Has a charm ; 
Her ringlets are in taste ; 
What an arm ! . . what a waist 

For an arm ! 



lOO POEMS OF FREDERICK LOCKER. 

With her bridal-wreath, bouquet, 
Lace farthingale, and gay 

Falbala^ — 
Were Romney's limning true, 
What a lucky dog were you. 

Grandpapa ! 

Her lips are sweet as love ; 

They are parting ! Do they move ? 

Are they dumb ? 
Her eyes are blue, and beam 
Beseechingly, and seem 

To say, '' Come ! " 

What funny fancy slips 

From atween these cherry lips ? 

Whisper me, 
Sweet sorceress in paint, 
What canon says I mayn't 

Marry thee ? 

That good-for-nothing Time 
Has a confidence sublime ! 

When I first 
Saw this lady, in my youth, 



TO MY GRANDMOTHER. lOI 

Her winters had, forsooth, 
Done their worst. 

Her locks, as white as snow, 
Once shamed the swarthy crow : 

By-and-by 
That fowl's avenging sprite 
Set his cruel foot for spite 

Near her eye. 

Her rounded form was lean. 
And her silk was bombazine : 

Well I wot 
With her needles would she sit, 
And for hours would she knit, — 

Would she not ? 

Ah, perishable clay ; 

Her charms had dropt away 

One by one : 
But if she heaved a sigh 
With a burthen, it was, '* Thy 

Will be done." 

In travail, as in tears, 
With the fardel of her years 



102 POEMS OF FREDERICK LOCKER. 

Overprest, 
In mercy she was borne 
Where the weary and the worn 

Are at rest. 

O, if you now are there, 
And sweet as once you were, 

Grandmamma, 
This nether world agrees 
'Twill all the better please 

Grandpapa. 



THE SKELETON IN THE CUP- 
BOARD. 

The rnosi forlorn — what ivorms we are ! 
Would wish tojiuish this cigar 
Before dej>arting. 

The characters of great and small 
Come ready made, we can't bespeak 
one ; 
Their sides are many, too, — and all 
(Except ourselves) have got a weak 
one. 
Some sanguine people love for life, 
Some love their hobby till it flings 
them. — 
How many love a pretty wife 

For love of the eclat she brings them ! 

A little to relieve my mind 

I've thrown off this disjointed chatter, 
But more because I'm disinclined 

To enter on a painful matter ; 



104 POEMS OF FREDERICK LOCKER. 

Once I was bashful ; I'll allow 

I've blush'd for words untimely 
spoken ; 

I still am rather shy, and now . . . 
And now the ice is fairly broken. 

We all have secrets : you have one 

Which mayn't be quite your charm- 
ing spouse's ; 
We all lock up a skeleton 

In some grim chamber of our houses ; 
Familiars who exhaust their days 

And nights in probing where our 
smart is — 
And who, excepting spiteful ways. 

Are " silent, unassuming /^r/zVj." 

We hug this phantom we detest, 

Rarely we let it cross our portals : 
It is a most exacting guest, — 

Now, are we not afflicted mortals ? 
Your neighbour Gay, that jovial wight, 

As Dives rich, and brave as Hector — 
Poor Gay steals twenty times a night. 

On shaking knees, to see his spectre. 



SKELETON IN THE CUPBOARD. IO5 

Old Dives fears a pauper fate, 

So hoarding in his ruUng passion ; — 
Some gloomy souls anticipate 

A waistcoat, straiter than the fash- 
ion! — 
She childless pines, that lonely wife, 
And secret tears are bitter shed- 
ding ;~ 
Hector may tremble all his life. 
And die, — but not of that he's dread- 
ing. 

Ah me, the World ! How fast it spins ! 

The beldams dance, the caldron bub- 
bles ; 
They shriek, — they stir it for our sins, 

And we must drain it for our troubles. 
We toil, we groan ; — the cry for love 

Mounts up from this poor seething 
city, 
And yet I know we have above 

A Father, infinite in pity. 

When Beauty smiles, when Sorrow 
v/eeps, 



I06 POEMS OF FREDERICK LOCKER. 

Where sunbeams play, where shadows 
darken. 
One inmate of our dwelling keeps 

Its ghastly carnival ; — but hearken '. 
How dry the rattle of the bones ! 
That sound was not to make you start 
meant : 
Stand by ! Your humble servant owns 
The Tenant of this Dark Apartment. 



ON AN OLD MUFF. 

He cannot be complete in aught 
Who is not humorously prone^ — 

A inan 7vithout a merry thought 
Can hardly have a funny bone. 

Time has a magic wand ! 
What is this meets my hand, 
Moth-eaten, mouldy, and 

Cover'd with fluff? 
Faded, and stiff, and scant ; 
Can it be ? no, it can't — 
VTes, I declare, it's Aunt 
Prudence's Muff! 

Years ago, twenty-three, 
Old Uncle Doubledee 
Gave it to Aunty P. 

Laughing and teasing— 
*' Pru., of the breezy curls, 
Question those solemn churls, 
What holds a pretty girVs 

Hand without squeezing f " 



Io8 POEMS OF FREDERICK LOCKER. 

Uncle was then a lad 
Gay, but, I grieve to add, 
Sinful ; if smoking bad 

Baccy s vice : 
Glossy was then this mink 
Muff, lined with pretty pink 
Satin, which maidens think 

" Awfully nice 1 " 

I seem to see again 

Aunt in her hood and train, 

Glide, with a sweet disdain, 

Gravely to Meeting : 
Psalm-book, and kerchief new, 
Peep'd from the Muff of Pru.; 
Young men, and pious too, 

Giving her greeting. 

Sweetly her Sabbath sped 
Then ; from this Muff, it's said. 
Tracts she distributed : — 

Converts (till Monday !) 
Lured by the grace they lack'd, 
Follow'd her. One, in fact, 
Ask'd for — and got his tract 

Twice of a Sunday I 



ON AN OLD MUFF. I09 

Love has a potent spell ; 
Soon this bold Ne'er-do-well, 
Aunt's too susceptible 

Heart undermining, 
Slipt, so the scandal runs. 
Notes in the pretty nun's 
Muff, triple-corner'd ones. 

Pink as its lining. 

Worse follow'd, soon the jade 

Fled (to oblige her blade !) 

Whilst her friends thought that they'd 

Lock'd her up tightly : 
After such shocking games 
Aunt is of wedded dames 
Gayest, and now her name's 

Mrs. Golightly. 

In female conduct flaw 
Sadder I never saw, 
Faith still I've in the law 

Of compensation. 
Once Uncle went astray, 
Smoked, joked, and swore away, 
Sworn by he's now, by a 

Large congregatioi>. 



no POEMS OF FREDERICK LOCKER. 

Changed is the Child of Sin, 
Now he's (he once was thin) 
Grave, with a double chin, — 

Blest be his fat form 1 
Changed is the garb he wore, 
Preacher was never more 
Prized than is Uncle for 

Pulpit or platform. 

If all's as best befits 
Mortals of slender wits, 
Then beg this Muff and its 

Fair Owner pardon : 
AW s for the best, indeed 
Such is My simple creed ; 
Still I must go and weed 

Hard in my garden. 

X863. 



AN INVITATION TO ROME, AND 
THE REPLY. 

THE INVITATION. 

Oh, come to Rome, it is a pleasant 
place, 
Your London sun is here, and smiling 
brightly ; 
The Briton, too, puts on his cheery face, 
And Mrs. Bull acquits herself politely. 
The Romans are an easy-going race, 
With simple wives more dignified 
than sprightly ; 
I see them at their doors, as day is 

closing, 
Prouder than duchesses, and more im- 
posing. 

A svftet far niente life promotes the 
graces ; 



112 POEMS OF FREDERICK LOCKER. 

They pass from dreamy bliss to wake- 
ful glee, 
And in their bearing and their speech, 
one traces 
A breadth, a depth— a grace of cour- 
tesy 
Not found in busy or inclement places ; 
Their clime and tongue are much in 
harmony : — 
The Cockneymetin Middlesex or Surrey, 
Is often cold, and always in a hurry. 

Oh, come to Rome, nor be content to 
read 
Of famous palace and of stately street 
Whose fountains ever run with joyful 
speed, 
And never-ceasing murmur. Here 
we greet 
Memnon's vast monolith ; or, gay with 
weed, 
Rich capitals, as corner-stone, or seat, 
The site of vanish'd temples, where now 

moulder 
Old ruins, masking ruin even older. 



AN INVITATION TO ROME. 113 

Ay, come, and see the statues, pictures, 
churches, 
Although the last are commonplace, 
or florid. — 

Who say 'tis here that superstition 
perches ? 
Myself, I'm glad the marbles have 
been quarried. 

The sombre streets are worthy your re- 
searches : 
The ways are foul, the lava pavement's 
horrid. 

But pleasant sights that squeamishness 
disparages. 

Are miss'd by all who roll about in car- 
riages. 

I dare not speak of Michael Angelo, 
Such theme were all too splendid for 
my pen : 
And if I breathe the name of Sanzio 

(The brightest of Italian gentlemen,) 
Is it that love casts out my fear, and so 
I claim with him a kindredship ? Ah, 
when 



114 POEMS OF FREDERICK LOCKER. 

We love, the name is on our hearts en- 
graven, 

As is thy name, my own dear Bard of 
Avon. 

Nor is the Coliseum theme of mine, 

'Twas built for poet of a larger daring ; 
The world goes there with torches ; I 
decline 
Thus to affront the moonbeams with 
their flaring. 
Some time in May our forces we'll, com- 
bine 
(Just you and I), and try a midnight 
airing. 
And then I'll quote this rhyme to you — 

and then 
You'll muse upon the vanity of men ! 

Come ! We will charter such a pair of 

nags ! 
The country's better seen when one is 

riding : 
We'll roam where yellow Tiber speeds 

or lags 



AN INVITATION TO ROME. II5 

At will. The aqueducts are yet be- 
striding 
With giant march (now whole, now bro- 
ken crags 
With flowers plumed) the swelling 
and subsiding 
Campagna, girt by purple hills afar, 
That melt in light beneath the evening 
star. 

A drive to Palestrina will be pleas- 
ant ; 
The wild fig grows where erst her 
rampart stood ; 

There oft, in goat-skin clad, a sunburnt 
peasant 
Like Pan comes frisking from his ilex 
wood, 

And seems to wake the past time in the 
present. 
Fair confadina, mark his mirthful 
mood, 

No antique satyr he. The nimble fel- 
low 

Can join with jollity your saltarello. 



Il6 POEMS OF FREDERICK LOCKER. 

Old sylvan peace and liberty ! The 
breath 
Of life to unsophisticated man. 
Here Mirth may pipe, Love here may 
weave his wreath, 
^^ Per dar' al mio bene." When you 
can, 
Come share their leafy solitudes. Pale 
Death 
And Time are grudging of our little 
span : 
Wan Time speeds lightly o'er the 
changing corn, 
Death grins from yonder cynical old 
thorn. 
Oh, come ! I send a leaf of April 
fern, 
It grew where beauty lingers round 
decay : 
Ashes long buried in a sculptured urn 
Are not more dead than Rome — so 
dead to-day ! 
That better time, for which the patriots 
yearn. 
Delights the gaze, again to fade away. 



THE REPLY. II7 

They wait, they pine for what is long 

denied, 
And thus I wait till thou art by my side. 

Thou'rt far away ! Yet, while I write, I 
still 
Seem gently. Sweet, to clasp thy 
hand in mine ; 
I cannot bring myself to drop the quill, 

I cannot yet thy little hand resign ! 
The plain is fading into darkness chill, 
The Sabine peaks are flushed with 
light divine, 
I watch alone, my fond thought wings 

to thee ; 
Oh, come to Rome. Oh come, — oh 
come to me ! 

1863. 



THE REPLY. 



Dear Exile, I was proud to get 

Your rhyme, I've laid it up in cotton ; 

You know that you are all to " Pet," — 
She fear'd that she was quite forgotten. 



Il8 POEMS OF FREDERICK LOCKER. 

Mamma, who scolds me when I mope, 
Insists, and she is wise as gentle, 

That I am still in love ! I hope 
That you feel rather sentimental ! 

Perhaps you think your Loveforlore 
Should pine unless her slave be with 
her. 
Of course you're fond of Rome, and 
more — 
Of course you'd Uke to coax me 
thither ! 
Che ! quit this dear, delightful maze 
Of calls and balls, to be intensely 
Discomfited in fifty ways — 

I like your confidence, immensely ! 

Some girls who love to ride and race. 
And live for dancing, like the Bruens, 

Confess that Rome's a charming place- 
In spite of all the stupid ruins ! 

I think it might be sweet to pitch 

One's tent beside those banks of 
Tiber, 

And all that sort of thing, of which 



THE REPLY. II9 

Dear Hawthorne's "quite" the best 
describer. 



To see stone pines and marble gods 

In garden alleys red with roses ; — 
The Perch where Pio Nono nods ; — 

The Church where Raphael reposes. 
Make pleasant giros — when we may ; 

Jump stagionate (where they're easy !) 
And play croquet ; the Bruens say 

There's turf behind the Ludovici ! 

I'll bring my books, though Mrs. Mee 

Says packing books is such a worry ; 
I'll bring my Golden Treasury, 

Manzoni, and, of course, a " Mur- 
ray ! " 
Your verses (if you so advise !) 

A Dante — Auntie owns a quarto ; 
I'll try and buy a smaller size. 

And read him on the muro torto. 

But can I go ? La Madre thinks 

It would be such an undertaking ! 
(I wish we could consult a sphinx !) 



I20 POEMS OF FREDERICK LOCKER. 

The thought alone has left her quak- 
ing ! 
Papa (we do not mind papa) 

Has got some '^ notice" of some 
" motion," 
And could not stay ; but, why not, — ah, 
I've not the very slightest notion ! 

The Browns have come to stay a week — 

They've brought the boys — I haven't 
thank'd 'em ; 
For Baby Grand, and Baby Pic, 

Are playing cricket in my sanctum ! 
Your Rover, too, affects my den, 

And when I pat the dear old whelp, 
it . . 
It makes me think of You, and then . . 

And then I cry— I cannot help it. 

Ah yes, before you left me, ere 
Our separation was impending, 

These eyes had seldom shed a tear, — 
I thought my joy could have no end- 
ing ! 

But cloudlets gather'd soon, and this — 



THE REPLY. 12 1 

This was the first that rose to grieve 
me — 
To know that I possess'd the bliss,— 
For then I knew such bliss might 
leave me ! 

My strain is sad, but, oh, believe 

Your words have made my spirit 
better ; 
And if, perhaps, at times I grieve, 

I'd meant to write a cheery letter ; 
But skies were dull ; Rome sounded hot, 

I fancied I could live without it: 
I thought I'd go, I thought I'd not, 

And then I thought I'd think about it. 

The sun now glances o'er the Park, 

If tears are on my cheek, they glitter, 
I think I've kissed your rhyme, for hark, 

My " buUey " gives a saucy twitter ! 
Your blessed words extinguish doubt, 

A sudden breeze is gaily blowing, — 
And Hark ! The minster bells ring out— 

She ought to go. Of course she's 

going! 
1863. 



GERALDINE. 

She Tvill not 7teed the Shej>hercPs crook^ 
Her griefs are only ;passing shadow ; 

She'll bask beside the purest brook. 
And nibble in the greenest meadow. 

A SIMPLE child has claims 
On your sentiment, her name's 

Geraldine. 
Be tender, but beware, 
She's frolicsome as fair, — 

And fifteen. 

She has gifts to grace alUed, 
And each she has applied, 

And improved : 
She has bliss that lives and leans 
On loving, — ah, that means 

She is loved. 

Her beauty is refined 

By sweet harmony of mind. 



GERALDINE. 1 23 

And the art, 
And the blessed nature, too, 
Of a tender, of a true 

Little heart. 

And yet I must not vault 
Over any foolish fault 

That she owns ; 
Or others might rebel. 
And enviously swell 

In their zones. 

For she's tricksy as the fays, 
Or her pussy when it plays 

With a string : 
She's a goose about her cat, 
Her ribbons, and all that 

Sort of thing. 

These foibles are a blot, 
Still she never can do what 

Is not nice ; 
Such as quarrel, and give slaps — 
As I've known her get, perhaps, 

Once or twice. 



124 POEMS OF FREDERICK LOCKER. 

The spells that draw her soul 
Are subtle — sad or droll : 

She can show 
That virtuoso whim 
Which consecrates our dim 

Long-ago. 

A love that is not sham 

For Stothard, Blake, and Lamb ; 

And I've known 
Cordelia's sad eyes 
Cause angel-tears to rise 

In her own. 

Her gentle spirit yearns 

When she reads of Robin Burns ;— 

Luckless Bard, 
Had she blossorn'd in thy time, 
Oh, how rare had been the rhyme 

— And reward ! 

Thrice happy then is he 
Who, planting such a Tree, 

Sees it bloom 
To shelter him ; indeed 



GERALDINE. 1 25 

We have joyance as we speed 
To our doom ! 

I am happy, having grown 
Such a Sapling of my own ; 

And I crave 
No garland for my brows, 
But rest beneath its boughs 

To the grave. 

1864. 



THE HOUSEMAID. 

The poor can love through toil and pain. 
Although their homely sj>eech is fain 

To halt itt fetters : 
They feel as much, and do far more 
Than some of those they bow before^ 

MiscalPd their betters. 

Wistful she stands — and yet resign'd 
She watches by the window-bUnd : 

Poor girl. No doubt 
The pilgrims here despise thy lot : 
Thou canst not stir, because 'tis not 

Thy Sunday out. 

To play a game of hide and seek 
With dust and cobweb all the week 

Small pleasure yields : 
Oh dear, how nice it is to drop 
One's pen and ink — one's pail and mop : 

And scour the fields. 

Poor Bodies few such pleasures know ; 
Seldom they come. How soon they go ! 



THE HOUSEMAID. 1 27 

But Souls can roam ; 
For lapt in visions airy-sweet, 
She sees in this unlovely street 

Her far-off home. 

The street is now no street ! She pranks 
A purling brook with thymy banks. 

In fancy's realm 
Yon post supports no lamp, aloof 
It spreads above her parents' roof, — 

A gracious elm. 

A father's aid, a mother's care, 
And life for her was happy there : 

Yet here, in thrall 
She sits, and dreams, and fondly 

dreams. 
And fondly smiles on one who seems 

More dear than all. 

Her dwelling-place I can't disclose ! 
Suppose her fair, her name suppose 

Is Car, or Kitty ; 
She may be Jane — she might be 
plain — 



128 POEMS OF FREDERICK LOCKER. 

For must the subject of my strain 
Be always pretty ? 

* * * 

Oft on a cloudless afternoon 

Of budding May and leafy JunCy 

Fit Sunday weather^ 
I pass thy window by design , 
And wish thy Sunday out and mine 

Might fall together. 

For sweet it were thy lot to dower 
With one brief joy : a white -robed flowef 

That prude or preacher 
Hardly could deem it were unmeet 
To lay on thy poor path ^ thou sweet. 

Forlorn^ young creature. 

But if her thought on wooing run 
And if her Sunday-swain is one 

Who's fond of strolling, 
She'd like my nonsense less than his 
And so it's better as it is — 

And that's consoling. 

1864. 



THE JESTER'S PLEA. 

These verses were published in 1862, in a volume of 
Poems (by several hands), entitled "An Offering to 
Lancashire." 

The world's a sorry wench, akin 

To all that's frail and frightful : 
The world's as ugly, ay, as sin, — 

And almost as delightful ! 
The world's a merry world {pro tern.). 

And some are gay, and therefore 
It pleases them, but some condemn 

The world they do not care for. 

The world's an ugly world. Offend 
Good people, how they wrangle ! 

Their manners that they never mend,— 
The characters they mangle ! 

They eat, and drink, and scheme, and 
plod, — 
They go to church on Sunday ; 



130 POEMS OF FREDERICK LOCKER. 

And many are afraid of God — 
And more of Mrs. Grundy. 

The time for pen and sword was when 

"My ladye fay re " for pity 
Could tend her wounded knight, and 
then 

Be tender to his ditty. 
Some ladies now make pretty songs, 

And some make pretty nurses : 
Some men are great at righting wrongs, 

And some at writing verses. 

I wish we better understood 

The tax our poets levy ; 
I know the Muse is goody goody 

I think she's rather heavy : 
Now she compounds for winning ways 

By morals of the sternest ; 
Methinks the lays of nowadays 

Are painfully in earnest. 

When wisdom halts, I humbly try 

To make the most of folly : 
If Pallas be unwilling, I 



THE jester's plea. I3I 

Prefer to flirt with Polly ; 
To quit the goddess for the maid 

Seems low in lofty musers ; 
But Pallas is a lofty jade — 

And beggars can't be choosers. 

I do not wish to see the slaves 

Of party stirring passion, 
Or psalms quite superseding staves 

Or piety " the fashion." 
I bless the Hearts where pity glows, 

Who, here together banded, 
Are holding out a hand to those 

That wait so empty-handed I 

Masters, may one in motley clad, 

A Jester by confession. 
Scarce noticed join, half gay, half sad, 

The close of your procession ? 
This garment here seems out of place 

With graver robes to mingle, 
But if one tear bedews his face, 

Forgive the bells their jingle. 



TO MY MISTRESS. 

His jftusings ivere trite, and their biirden, forsooth, 
The ivisdojft of age and the folly of youth. 

Countess, I see the flying year, 
And feel how Time is wasting here : 
Ay more, he soon his worst will do, 
And garner all Your roses too. 

It pleases Time to fold his wings 
Around our best and fairest things ; 
He'll mar your blooming cheek, as now 
He stamps his mark upon my brow. 

The same mute planets rise and shine 
To rule your days and nights as mine : 
Once I was young and gay, and 

see ! . . 
What I am now you soon will be. 

And yet I boast a certain charm 

That shields me from your worst alarm ; 



TO MY MISTRESS. 133 

And bids me gaze, with front sublime, 
On all these ravages of Time. 

You boast a gift to charm the eyes, 
I boast a gift that Time defies : 
For mine will still be mine, and last 
When all your pride of beauty's past. 

My gift may long embalm the lures 
Of eyes— ah, sweet to me as yours : 
For ages hence the great and good 
Will judge you as I choose they should. 

In days to come the peer or clown. 
With whom I still shall win renown, 
Will only know that you were fair 
Because I chanced to say you were 

Proud Lady! Scornful beauty mocks 
At aged heads and silver locks ; 
But think awhile before you fly, 
Or spurn a poet such as I. 

Kenwood : July 21, 1864, 



MY MISTRESS'S BOOTS. 

She has dancing eyes and ruby lij>s. 
Delightful boots — and aivay she skij>s. 

They nearly strike me dumb, — = 
I tremble when they come 

Pit-a-pat : 
This palpitation means 
These boots are Geraldine's — 

Think of that ! 

O, where did hunter win 
So delicate a skin 

For her feet ? 
You lucky little kid, 
Youperish'd, so you did, 

For my sweet. 

The faery stitching gleams 
On the sides, and in the seams. 
And it shows 



MY MISTRESS'S BOOTS. I35 

The Pixies were the wags 
Who tipt these funny tags, 
And these toes. 



What soles to charm an elf ! 
Had Crusoe, sick of self, 

Chanced to view 
One printed near the tide, 
O, how hard he would have tried 

For the two ! 



For Gerry's debonair, 
And innocent and fair 

As a rose ; 
She's an angel in a frock, 
She's an angel with a clock 
To her hose. 

The simpletons who squeeze 
Their extremities to please 

Mandarins, 

Would positively flinch OF T^ S 

From venturing to pinch 



Geraldine's. -« . i f\^ \ 



VOL. 

ISTHS 

PROPERTY 




iW itaia 



136 POEMS OF FREDERICK LOCKER. 

Cinderalla's lefts and rights 
To Geraldine's were frights : 

And I trow, 
The damsel, deftly shod, 
Has dutifully trod 

Until now. 

Come, Gerry, since it suits 
Such a pretty Puss (in Boots) 

These to don, 
Set this dainty hand awhile 
On my shoulder, dear, and I'll 

Put them on. 

Albury, June 29, 1864. 



THE ROSE AND THE RING. 

(Christmas, 1854, and Christmas, 1863.) 

She smiles, but her heart is in sable, 

Ay, sad as her Christmas is chill ; 
She reads, and her book is the fable 

He penn'd for her while she was ill. 
It is nine years ago since he wrought it, 

Where reedy old Tiber is king ; 
And chapter by chapter he brought it. 

And read her the Rose and the Ring. 

And when it was printed, and gaining 

Renown with all lovers of glee. 
He sent her this copy containing 

His comical little croquis; 
A sketch of a rather droll couple — 

She's pretty, he's quite t'other thing ! 
He begs (with a spine vastly supple) 

She will study the Rose and the Ring. 



138 POEMS OF FREDERICK LOCKER. 

It pleased the kind Wizard to send her 

The last and the best of his toys ; 
He aye had a sentiment tender 

For innocent maidens and boys ; 
And though he was great as a scorner, 

The guileless were safe from his 
sting :— 
How sad is past mirth to the mourner — 

A tear on the Rose and the Ring ! 

She reads ; I may vainly endeavour 

Her mirth-chequer'd grief to pursue, 
For she knows she has lost, and for ever, 

The heart that was bared to so few ; 
But here, on the shrine of his glory, 

One poor little blossom I fling ; 
And you see there's a nice little story 

Attach'd to the Rose and the Ring. 

1864. 



NUPTIAL VERSES. 

The town despises new world lays : 

The foolish town is frantic 
For story-books that tell of days 

Which time has made romantic ; 
Of days, whose chiefest glories fill 

The gloom of crypt and barrow ; 
When soldiers were, as Love is still, 

Content with bow and arrow. 

But why should we the fancy chide ? 

The world will always hunger 
To know how people lived and died 

When all the world was younger. 
We like to read of knightly parts 

In maidenhood's distresses, 
Of tryst, with sunshine in light hearts, 

And moonbeam on dark tresses ; 

And how, when err ante -knyghte or erl 
Proved well the love he gave her. 



I40 POEMS OF FREDERICK LOCKER. 

She'd send him scarf or silken curl, 

As earnest of her favour ; 
And how (the Fair at times were rude \) 

Her knight, ere homeward riding, 
Would take, and, ay with gratitude, 

His lady's silver chiding. 

We love the rare old days and rich 

That poetry has painted ; 
We mourn that sacred age with which 

We never were acquainted. 
Absurd ! our modern world's divine, 

A world to dare and do in, 
A more romantic world. In fine 

A better world to woo in ! 

The flow of life is yet a rill 

That laughs, and leaps, and glistens; 
And still the woodland rings, and still 

The old Damoetas listens. 
Romance, as tender as she's true, 

Our Isle has never quitted : 
So, Lad and Lassie, when you woo, 

You hardly need be pitied. 



NUPTIAL VERSES. I4I 

Our lot is cast on pleasant days, 

In not unpleasant places ; 
Young ladies now have pretty ways, 

As well as pretty faces ; 
So never sigh for what has been. 

And let us cease complaining 
That we have loved when our dear 
Queen 

Victoria was reigning. 

Oh yes, young love is lovely yet. 

With faith and honour plighted : 
I love to see a pair so met, 

Youth — Beauty — all united. 
Such dear ones may they ever wear 

The roses fortune gave them : 
Ah, know we such a Blessed Pair ? 

I think we do ! GOD save them I 



MRS. SMITH. 

Heigh ho ! they're wed. The cards are dealt. 
Our frolic games are o'er ; 

Pve laughed, andfooVd, and loved. Pve felt- 
As I shall feel no more ; 

Yon little thatch is ivhere she lives. 
Yon spire is ivhere sh-e met me ; — 

/ think that if she quite forgives. 
She cannot quite forget ine. 

Last year I trod these fields with Di, 
Fields fresh with clover and with rye ; 

Now they seem arid. 
Then Di was fair and single ; how 
Unfair it seems on me, for now 

Di's fair — and married ! 

A blissful swain — I scorn'd the song 
Which says that though young Love is 
strong, 

The Fates are stronger: 
Breezes then blew a boon to men, 
The buttercups were bright, and them 

This grass was longer. 



MRS. SMITH. 143 

That day I saw and much esteem'd 
Di's ankles, which the clover seem'd 

Inclined to smother: 
It twitch'd, and soon untied (for fun) 
The ribbon of her shoes, first one, 

And then the other. 

I'm told that virgins augur some 
Misfortune if their shoe-strings come 

To grief on Friday: 
And so did Di, and then her pride 
Decreed that shoe-strings so untied 

Are "so untidy!" 

Of course I knelt ; with fingers deft 
I tied the right, and tied the left : 

SaysDi, ''The stubble 
Is very stupid ! — as I live 
I'm quite ashamed ! . . . I'm shock'd 
to give 

You so much trouble ! " 

For answer I was fain to sink 
To what we all would say and think 
Were Beauty present: 



144 POEMS OF FREDERICK LOCKER. 

" Don't mention such a simple act — 
A trouble ? not the least ! In fact 
It's rather pleasant ! " 

I trust that Love will never tease 
Poor little Di, or prove that he's 

A graceless rover. 
She's happy now as Mrs. Smith — 
And less polite when walking with 

Her chosen lover ! 

Heigh-ho ! Although no moral clings 
To Di's blue eyes, and sandal strings, 

We've had our quarrels. 
I think that Smith is thought an ass,— 
I know that when they walk in grass 

She wears babnorals. 

1864, 



IMPLORA PACE. 

My lot as I ro7>e. 

Is to sing for the throng; 
And 7villnot they love 

The J>oor child for his song? 

Life is at best a weary round 

Of mingled joy and woe ; 
How soon the passing knell will sound ! 

Is death a friend or foe ? 
Our fleeting days are sad, and vain 
Is much that tempts us to remain 

Yet we are loth to go. 
Must I soon tread yon silent shore, 
Go hence, and then be seen no more ? 

I love to think that those I loved 

May gather round the bier 
Of him who, if he erring proved, 

Still held them more than dear. 
My friends grow fewer day by day, 
Yes, one by one they drop away ; 



146 POEMS OF FREDERICK LOCKER. 

And if I shed no tear, 
Departed shades, while life endures, 
This poor heart yearns for love — and 
Yours. 

That day, will there be one to shed 

A tear behind the hearse ? 
Or cry, " Poor Yorick, are you dead ? 

I could have spared a worse — 
We never spoke ; we never met ; 
I never heard your voice ; and yet 

/ loved you for your verse ? " 
Such love would make the flowers wave 
In gladness on their poet's grave. 

A few, few years, like one short week. 

Will pass and leave behind 
A stone moss-grown, that none will 
seek, 
And none would care to find. 
Then I shall sleep, and gain release 
In perfect rest — the perfect peace 

For which my soul has pined ; — 
And men will love, and weary men 
Will sue for quiet slumber then. 



MR. PLACID'S FLIRTATION. 

" Jemima was cross, and I lost my umbrella 
That day at the tomb of Cecilia Metella:' 

Letters from Rome. 

Miss Tristram's poulet ended thus : 

* ' Nota bene, 
We meet for croquet in the Aldobran- 

dini." 
Says my wife, " Then I'll drive, and 

you'll ride with Selina " 
(Jones's fair spouse, of the Via Sistina). 

We started : I'll own that my family 
deem 

I'm an ass, but I'm not such an ass as I 
seem ; 

As we crossed the stones gently a nurse- 
maid said " La — 

There goes Mrs. Jones with Miss Placid's 
papa ! " 



148 POEMS OF FREDERICK LOCKER. 

Our friends, one or two may be men- 

tion'd anon, 
Had arranged rendezvous at the Gate 

of St. John : 
That pass'd, off we spun over turf that's 

not green there, 
And soon were all met at the villa. 

You've been there ? 

I'll try and describe, or I won't, if you 

please, 
The cheer that was set for us under the 

trees : 
You have read the menu, may you read 

it again ; 
Champagne, perigord, galantine, and— 

champagne. 

Suffice it to say, I got seated between 
Mrs. Jones and old Brov>'n — to the lat- 

ter's chagrin. 
Poor Brown, who believes in himself, 

and — another thing, 
Whose talk is so bald, but whose cheeks 

are so — t'other thing. 



MR. PLACID'S flirtation. 149 

She sang, her sweet voice fiU'd the gay 

garden alleys ; 
I jested, but Brown would not smile at 

my sallies ; — 
Selina remark'd that a swell met at 

Rome 
Is not always a swell when you meet 

him at home. 

The luncheon despatch'd, we adjourn'd 

to croquet, 
A dainty, but difficult sport in its way. 
Thus I counsel the sage, who to play at 

it stoops. 
Belabour thy neighbour, and spoon 

th7'ough thy hoops. 

Then we stroll'd, and discourse found 

its kindest of tones : 
" Oh, how charming were solitude and 

— Mrs. Jones ! " 
" Indeed, Mr. Placid, I dote on the 

sheeny 
And shadowy paths of the Aldobran- 

dini! 



I$0 POEMS OF FREDERICK LOCKER. 

A girl came with violet posies, and two 
Gentle eyes, like her violets, freshen'd 

with dew, 
And a kind of an indolent, fine -lady 

air, — 
As if she by accident found herself there. 

I bought one. Selina was pleased to ac- 
cept it ; 

She gave me a rosebud to keep — and 
I've kept it. 

Then twilight was near, and I think, in 
my heart, 

When she vow*d she must go, she was 
loth to depart. 

Cattivo momento I we dare not delay : 
The steeds are remounted, and wheels 

roll away : 
The ladies condemn Mrs. Jones, as the 

phrase is. 
But vie with each other in chanting my 

praises. 

** He has so much to say ! " cries the 
fair Mrs. Legge ; 



MR. PLACID'S FLIRTATION. 151 

** How amusing he was about missing 

the peg ! " 
" What a beautiful smile ! " says the 

plainest Miss Gunn. 
All echo, " He's charming ! delightful! 

—What fun ! " 

This sounds rather nicef and it's per- 
fectly clear it 

Had sounded more nice had I happen'd 
to hear it ; 

The men were less civil, and gave me a 
rub, 

So I happen'd to hear when I went to 
the Club. 

Says Brown, "I shall drop Mr. Placid's 
society ; " 

(Brown is a prig of improper propriety ;) 

'* Hang him," said Smith (who from 
cant's not exempt), 

"Why he'll bring immorality into con- 
tempt." 

Says I (to myself) when I found me 
alone, 



152 POEMS OF FREDERICK LOCKER. 

" My dear wife has my heart, is it al- 
ways her own ? " 

And further, says I (to myself), ^' I'll be 
shot 

If I know if Selina adores me or not." 

Says Jones, "I've just come from the 

scavi, at Veii, 
And I've brought some remarkably fine 

scarabaei ! " 



BEGGARS. 

Some beggars look on : I extremely regret it — 
They loishfor a taste. Dofit they -wish they may 

get it. 
She thus aggravates both the humble and needy, — 
Y 01^ II own she is thoughtless — / think she is greedy. 

Punch. 

I AM pacing the Mall in a rapt reverie, — 
I am thinking if Sophy is thinking of me, 
When I'm roused by a ragged and 

shivering wretch, 
Who seems to be well on his way to 

Jack Ketch. 

He has got a bad face, and a shocking 
bad hat ; 

A comb in his fist, and he sees I'm a 
flat, 

For he says, "Buy a comb, it's a fine 
un to wear ; 

On'y try it, my Lord, through your whis- 
kers and 'air." 



154 POEMS OF FREDERICK LOCKER. 

He eyes my gold chain, as if anxious to 

crib it ; 
He looks just as if he'd been blown from 

a gibbet. 
I pause ... I pass on, and beside 

the club fire 
I settle that Sophy is all I desire. 

As I walk from the club, and am deep 

in a strophe 
That rolls upon all that's delicious in 

Sophy, 
I'm humbly address'd by an "object" 

unnerving, 
So tatter'd a wretch must be " highly 

deserving." 

She begs, — I am touch'd, but I've great 
circumspection : 

I stifle remorse with the soothing reflec- 
tion 

That cases of vice are by no means a 
rarity — 

The worst vice of ail's indiscriminate 
charity. 



BEGGARS. 155 

Am I right ? How I wish that my cleri- 
cal guide 

Would settle this question— and others 
beside. 

For always one's heart to be hardening 
thus, 

If wholesome for beggars, is hurtful for 
us. 

A few minutes later I'm happy and 

free 
To sip ''Its own Sophy kins"' five- 

o'clock tea : 
Her table is loaded, for when a girl 

marries, 
What bushels of rubbish they send her 

from Barry's / 

" There's a present for you, Sir ! " Yes, 
thanks to her thrift. 

My Pet has been able to buy me a gift ; 

And she slips in my hand, the delight- 
fully sly Thing, 

A paper-weight form'd of a bronze lizard 
writhing. 



156 POEMS OF FREDERICK LOCKER. 

^'What a charming cadeau ! and so 
truthfully moulded ; 

But perhaps you don't know, or deserve 
to be scolded, 

That in casting this metal a live, harm- 
less lizard 

Was cruelly tortured in ghost and in 
gizzard ? " 

" Po-oh ! " — says my lady, (she always 

says " Pooh " 
When she's wilful, and does what she 

oughtn't to do !) 
'' Hopgarten protests they've no feeling, 

and so 
It was only their muscular movement^ 

you know ! " 

Thinks I (when Pve said au revoir, and 

depart — 
A Comb in my pocket, a Weight — at 

my heart), 
And when wretched mendicants writhe, 

there's a notion 
That begging is only their ''muscular 

motion." 



THE JESTER'S MORAL, 

/ grudge that lonely Titan his crook^ 

It seetns no idle whim 
That if he reads in Natures book. 

Her voice has been to hint 
A spiritual life, to sway 
And cheer hint on his endless way. 

The Old Shepherd. 

Is human life a pleasant game 

That gives the palm to all ? 
A fight for fortune, or for fame, 

A struggle, and a fall ? 
Who views the Past, and all he prized, 

With tranquil exultation ? 
And who can say — I've realised 

My fondest aspiration? 

Alas, not one. No, rest assured 
That all are prone to quarrel 

With fate, when worms destroy their 
gourd, 
Or mildew spoils their laurel : 



158 POEMS OF FREDERICK LOCKER. 

The prize may come to cheer our lot, 
But all too late ; and granted 

If even better, still it's not 
Exactly what we wanted. 

My schoolboy time ! I wish to praise 

That bud of brief existence, — 
The vision of my younger days 

Now trembles in the distance. 
An envious vapour lingers here. 

And there I find a chasm ; 
But much remains, distinct and clear, 

To sink enthusiasm. 

Such thoughts just now disturb my soul 

With reason good, for lately 
I took the train to Marley-knoU, 

And cross'd the fields to Mately. 
I found old Wheeler at his gate. 

He once rare sport could show me : 
My Mentor too on springe and bait — 

But Wheeler did not know me. 

♦' Goodlord I " at last exclaim'd the 
churl, 
** Are you the little chap, sir, 



THE JESTER'S MORAL. 1 59 

What used to train his hair in curl, 
And wore a scarlet cap, sir ? " 

And then he took to fill in blanks, 
And conjure up old faces ; 

And talk of well-remember'd pranks 
In half-forgotten places. 

It pleased the man to tell his brief 

And rather mournful story, — 
Old Bliss's school had come to grief, 

And Bliss had ** gone to glory." 
Fell'd were his trees, his house was 
razed. 

And what less keenly pain'd me, 
A venerable donkey grazed 

Exactly where he caned me. 

And where have all my playmates sped. 

Whose ranks were once so serried ? 
Why some are wed, and some are dead, 

And some are only buried ; 
Frank Petre, then so full of fun, 

Is now St. Blaise's prior. 
And Travers, the attorney's son 

Is member for the shire. 



l6o POEMS OF FREDERICK LOCKER. 

Dull maskers we — Life's festival 

Enchants the blithe new-comer ; 
But seasons change ; — oh where are all 

Those friendships of our summer ? 
Wan pilgrims flit athwart our track, 

Cold looks attend the meeting ; 
We only greet them, glancing back, 

Or pass without a greeting. 

Old Bliss I owe some rubs, but pride 

Constrains me to postpone 'em, — 
Something he taught me, ere he died, 

About ;/// nisi bo7tuin. 
I've met with wiser, better men, 

But I forgive him wholly ; 
Perhaps his jokes were sad, but then 

He used to storm so drolly. 

** I still can laugh " is still my boast, 

But mirth has sounded gayer ; 
And which provokes my laughter most, 

The preacher or the player ? 
Alack, I cannot laugh at what 

Once made us laugh so freely ; 
For Nestroy and Grassot are not — 

And where is Mr. Keeley ? 



THE JESTER'S MORAL. l6l 

I'll join St. Blaise (a verseman fit, 

More fit than I, once did it) 
— / shave my crown ? No, Common 
Wit 

And Common Sense forbid it. 
I'd sooner dress your Little Miss 

As Paulet shaves his poodles ! 
As soon propose for Betsy Bliss, 

Or get proposed for Boodle's. 

We prate of Life's illusive dyes. 

And yet fond Hope misleads us ; 
We all believe we near the prize, 

Till some fresh dupe succeeds us ! 
And yet, tho' Life's a riddle, though 

No clerk has yet explain'd it, 
I still can hope ; for well I know 

That Love has thus ordain'd it. 

Paris, November^ 1864. 



ADVICE TO A POET. 

Now i/yoiillonly take, perchanct 
But half the pains to learn, that we 

Still take to hide our ignorance — 
How very clever you will he I 

Dear Poet, do not rhyme at all ! 

But if you must, don't tell your neigh- 
hours, 
Or five in six, who cannot scrawl, 

Will dub you donkey for your labours. 
This epithet may seem unjust 

To you, or any verse-begetter : 
Must we admit — I fear we must— 

That nine in ten deserve no better ? 

Then let them bray with leathern lungs, 

And match you with the beast that 

grazes 

Or wag their heads, and hold their 

tongues. 

Or damn you with the faintest praises. 



ADVICE TO A POET. 163 

Be patient, but be sure you won't 
Win vogue without extreme vexation : 

Yet hope for sympathy, — but don't 
Expect it from a near relation. 

When strangers first approved my 
books, 
My kindred marvell'd what the praise 
meant ; 
Now they wear more respectful looks, 
But can't get over their amazement. 
Indeed, they've power to wound, beyond 

That wielded by the fiercest hater. 
For all the time they are so fond — 
Which makes the aggravation greater. 
* •» * * 

Most warblers only half express 
The threadbare thoughts they feebly 
utter : 
Now if they tried for something less, 
They might not sink, and gasp, and 
flutter. 
Fly low at first, — then mount, and win 
The niche for which the town's con- 
testing ; 



164 POEMS OF FREDERICK LOCKER. 

And never mind your kith and kin— 
But never give them cause for jesting. 

Hold Pegasus in hand, control 
A taste for ornament ensnaring ; 

Simplicity is yet the soul 

Of all that time deems worth the 
sparing. 

Long lays are not a lively sport, 
So clip your own to half a quarter. 

If readers now don't think them short, 

Posterity will cut them shorter. 

* * * * 

I look on bards who whine for praise 
With feelings of profoundest pity : 

They hunger for the Poet's bays, 
And swear one's waspish when one's 
witty. 

The critic's lot is passing hard — 

Between ourselves, I think reviewers, 

When call'd to truss a crowing bard, 

Should not be sparing of the skewers. 

* * * * 

We all, the foolish and the wise. 
Regard our verse with fascination, 



ADVICE TO A POET. 165 

Through asinine-paternal eyes, 
And hues of fancy's own creation ; 

Prythee, then, check that passing sneer 
At any self-deluded rhymer 

Who thinks his beer (the smallest beer !) 

Has all the gust of alt hochheimer. 
* * * * 

Oh, for the Poet-Voice that swells 

To lofty truths, or noble curses — 
I only wear the cap and bells, 

And yet some tears are in my verses. 
I softly trill my sparrow reed. 

Pleased if but one should like the 
twitter ; 
Humbly I lay it down to heed 

A music or a minstrel fitter. 



AN ASPIRATION. 

Alas, hoio dejilorably love has miscarried, — 

The strij)ling is dead, and the virgin is married f 

I ask'd Miss Di, who loves her sheep, 
To look at this Arcadian peep 

Of April leafage, pure and beamy : 
A pair of girls in hoops and nets 
Have found a pair of woolly pets, 

And all is young, and nicey and 
dreamy. 

Miss Di has kindly eyes for all 
That's pretty, quaint, and pastoral : 

Said she, " These ladies sentimental 
Are lucky, in a world of shams. 
To find a pair of luckless lambs 

So white, and so extremely gentle." 

I heard her with surprise and doubt, 
For though I don't much care about 
The world she spoke with such dis- 
dain of; 



AN ASPIRATION. 167 

And though the Iamb I mostly see 
Is overdone, it seem'd to me 

That these had Httle to complain 
of. 

When Beings of the fairer sex 
Arrange their white arms round our 
necks, 
We are, we ought to be enrap- 
tured — 
Would that I were your lamb, Miss Di, 
Or even yon poor butterfly, 

With some small hope of being 
captured. 



A GARDEN IDYLL. 

There are j)lenty of roses [the patriarch speaks') 
But alas not for me, on your lips and your cheeks ; 
Siueet Maiden^ rose laden — enough and to spare — 
Spare, O spare me the rose that you 7uear in your 
hair. 

We have loiter'd and laugh'd in the 
flowery croft, 
We have met under wintry skies ; 
Her voice is the dearest voice, and soft 

Is the hght in her wistful eyes ; 
It is sweet in the silent woods, among 

Gay crowds, or in any place 
To hear her voice, to gaze on her young 
Confiding face. 

For ever may roses divinely blow, 
And wine-dark pansies charm 

By the prim box path where I felt the 
glow 
Of her dimpled, trusting arm, 



A GARDEN IDYLL. 169 

And the sweep of her silk as she turn'd 
and smiled 
A smile as fair as her pearls ; 
The breeze was in love with the darling 
child, 
As it moved her curls. 

She show'd me her ferns and woodbine 
sprays, 
Foxglove and jasmine stars, 
A mist of blue in the beds, a blaze 

Of red in the celadon jars : 
And velvety bees in convolvulus bells. 

And roses of bountiful June — 
Oh, who would think the summer spells 
Could die so soon ! 

For a glad song came from the milking 
shed, 
On a wind of that summer south, 
And the green was golden above her 
head, 
And a sunbeam kiss'd her mouth ; 
Sweet were the lips where that sunbeam 
dwelt— 



170 POEMS OF FREDERICK LOCKER. 

And the wings of Time were fleet 
As I gazed ; and neither spoke, for we 
felt 
Life was so sweet ! 

And the odorous limes were dim above 

As we leant on a drooping bough ; 
And the darkling air was a breath of 
love, 
And a witching thrush sang " Now ! '* 
For the sun dropt low, and the twilight 
grew 
As we listen'd, and sigh'd, and leant — 
That day was the sweetest day — and we 
knew 
What the sweetness meant. 

1868, 



ST. JAMES'S STREET. 

(see note.) 

St. James's Street, of classic fame, 

The finest people throng it. 
St. James's Street ? I know the name, 

I think I've passed along it ! 
Why, that's where Sacharissa sigh'd 

When Waller read his ditty ; 
Where Byron lived, and Gibbon died, 

And Alvanley was witty. 

A famous street ! To yonder Park 

Young Churchill stole in class-time ; 
Come, gaze on fifty men of mark, 

And then recall the past time. 
1\iz plats at White's, the play at Crock' s^ 

The bumpers to Miss Gunning ; 
The bonhomie of Charlie Fox, 

And Selwyn's ghastly funning. 



172 POEMS OF FREDERICK LOCKER. 

The dear old street of clubs and cribs ^ 

As north and south it stretches, 
Still seems to smack of Rolliad squibs, 

And Gillray's fiercer sketches ; 
The quaint old dress, the grand old 
style. 

The mots, the racy stories ; 
The wines, the dice, the wit, the bile — 

The hate of Whigs and Tories. 

At dusk, when I am strolling there, 

Dim forms will rise around me ; — 
Lepel flits past me in her chair, 

And Congreve's airs astound me ! 
And once Nell Gwynne, a frail young 
sprite, 

Look'd kindly when I met her ; 
I shook my head, perhaps, — but quite 

Forgot to quite forget her. 

The street is still a lively tomb 
For rich, and gay, and clever ; — 

The crops of dandies bud and bloom, 
And die as fast as ever. 



ST. JAMES'S STREET. 1 73 

Now gilded youth loves cutty pipes, 
And slang that's rather scaring,— 

It can't approach its prototypes 
In taste, or tone, or bearing. 

In Brummell's day of buckle shoes, 

Lawn cravats, and roll collars. 
They'd fight, and woo, and bet — and lose 

Like gentlemen and scholars : 
I'm glad young men should go the pace, 

I half forgive Old Rapid j 
These louts disgrace their name and 
race — 

So vicious and so vapid ! 

Worse times may come. Bon ton^ in- 
deed, 

Will then be quite forgotten, 
And all we much revere will speed 

From ripe to worse than rotten : 
Let grass then sprout between yon 
stones. 

And owls then roost at Boodle's, 
For Echo will hurl back the tones 

Of screaming Yankee Doodles. 



174 POEMS OF FREDERICK LOCKER. 

I love the haunts of Old Cockaigne, 

Where wit and wealth were squan- 
der'd ; 
The halls that tell of hoop and train, 

Where grace and rank have wander'd ; 
Those halls where ladies fair and leal 

First ventured to adore me ! — 
Something of that old love I feel 

For this old street before me. 

1867. 



ROTTEN ROW. 

Most people like to bill and coo, 

And some have done it for the last time ; 
So, happy folk, ive envy you 

Your pleasant atid intproznng pastiTne. 

I HOPE Fm fond of much that's good. 
As well as much that's gay ; 

I'd like the country if I could ; 
I love the Park in May : 

And when I ride in Rotten Row, 

I wonder why they call'd it so. 

A lively scene on turf and road ; 

The crowd is bravely drest : 
The Ladies' Mile has overflow'd, 

The chairs are in request : 
The nimble air, so soft, so clear, 
Hardly can stir a ringlet here. 

I'll halt beneath the pleasant trees, 
And drop my bridle-rein, 



176 POEMS OF FREDERICK LOCKER. 

And, quite alone, indulge at ease 

The philosophic vein : 
I'll moralise on all I see — 
Yes, it was all arranged for me ! 

Forsooth, and on a livelier spot 

The sunbeam never shines. 
Fair ladies here can talk and trot 

With statesmen and divines : 
Could I have chosen, I'd have been 
A Duke, a Beauty, or a Dean. 

What grooms I What gallant gentle- 
men ! 

What well-appointed hacks ! 
What glory in their pace, and then 

What beauty on their backs ! 
My Pegasus would never flag 
If weighted as my lady's nag. 

But where is now the courtly troop 
That once rode laughing by ? 

I miss the curls of Cantilupe, 
The laugh of Lady Di : 

They all could laugh from night to morn. 

And Time has laugh'd them all to scorn. 



ROTTEN ROW. I 77 

I then could frolic in the van 
With dukes and dandy earls ; 

Then I was thought a nice young man 
By rather nice young girls ! 

I've half a mind to join Miss Browne, 

And try one canter up and down. 

Ah, no — I'll linger here a while, 

And dream of days of yore ; 
For me bright eyes have lost the smile, 

The sunny smile they wore : — 
Perhaps they say, what I'll allow, 
That I'm not quite so handsome now. 

1867. 



A NICE CORRESPONDENT! 

An angel at noofi, ske^s a ivoman at nighty 

All softness^ and sweetness, and love, and delight. 

The glow and the glory are plighted 
To darkness, for evening is come ; 
The lamp in Glebe Cottage is lighted, 
The birds and the sheep-bells are 
dumb. 
I'm alone for the others have flitted 

To dine with a neighbour at Kew : 
I'm alone, but I'm not to be pitied— 
I'm thinking of you ! 

I wish you were here ! Were I duller 
Than dull, you'd be dearer than dear ; 

I am drest in your favourite colour — 
Dear Fred, how I wish you were here ! 

I am wearing my lazuli necklace, 
The necklace you fasten'd askew ! 

Was there ever so rude or so reckless 
A darling as you ? 



A NICE correspondent! 1 79 

I want you to come and pass sentence 
On two or three books with a plot ; 
Of course you know "Janet's Repent- 



ance 



"? 



I'm reading Sir Waverley Scott, 
The story of Edgar and Lucy, 

How thrilling, romantic, and true ! 
The Master (his bride was a goosey ! ) 
Reminds me of you. 

They tell me Cockaigne has been 
crowning 
A Poet whose garland endures ; 
It was you that first told me of Brown- 
ing,— 
That stupid old Browning of yours ! 
His vogue and his verve are alarming, 

I'm anxious to give him his due. 
But, Fred, he's not nearly so charming 
A poet as you ! 

I heard how you shot at The Beeches, 
I saw how you rode Chanticleer ^ 

I have read the report of your speeches, 
And echo'd the echoing cheer. 



l8o POEMS OF FREDERICK LOCKER. 

There's a whisper of hearts you are 
breaking, 
Dear Fred, I believe it, I do ! — 
Small marvel that Folly is making 
Her idol of you ! 

Alas for the World, and its dearly 

Bought triumph, its fugitive bliss ; 
Sometimes I half wish I were merely 

A plain or a penniless miss ; 
But, perhaps, one is best with a "meas- 
ure 
Of pelf," and I'm not sorry, too, 
That I'm pretty, because 'tis a pleasure, 
My darling, to you ! 

Your whim is for frolic and fashion, 
Your taste is for letters and art ; — 

This rhyme is the commonplace passion 
That glows in a fond woman's heart : 

Lay it by in a dainty deposit 
For relics — we all have a few ! 

Love, some day they'll print it, because it 
Was written to you. 

1868. 



AN OLD BUFFER. 

Buffer.— A cushion or apparatus, with strong 
springs, to deaden the buff or concussion between a 
moving body and one on which it strikes. — Webster's 
English Dictionary. 

" If Blossom! s a scefiic, or saucy, Pll search, 
And I'll Jind her a wholesome corrective — in 
Church r' 

Mamma loquitur, 

"A KNOCK-ME-DOWN sermon, and 
worthy of Birch," 

Says I to my wife, as we toddle from 
church ; 

*' Convincing indeed ! " is the lady's re- 
mark ; 

"How logical, too, on the size of the 
Ark ! " 

Then Blossom cut in, without begging 
our pardons, 

*' Pa, was it as big as the 'Logical Gar- 
dens ? " 



152 POEMS OF FREDERICK LOCKER. 

" Miss Blossom," says I to my dearest 
of dearies, 

" Papa disapproves of nonsensical que- 
ries ; 

The Ark was an Ark, and had people to 
build it. 

Enough we are told Noah built it and 
fill'd it : 

Mamma does not ask how he caught his 
opossums." 

■ — Said she, ** That remark is as foolish 
as Blossom's ! " 



Thus talking and walking, the time is 

beguiled 
By my orthodox wife and my sceptical 

child ; 
I act as their buffer, whenever I can. 
And you see I'm of use as a family 

man. 
I parry their blows, I have plenty to 

do— 
I think that the child's are the worst of 

the two I 



AN OLD BUFFER. 183 

My wife has a healthy aversion for 

sceptics, 
She vows they are bad — they are only 

dyspeptics ! 
May Blossom prove neither the one nor 

the other, 
But do as she's bid by her excellent 

mother. — 
She thinks I'm a Solon ; perhaps, if I 

huff her, 
She'll think I'm a — something that's 

denser and tougher. 



TO LINA OSWALD. 
(aged five years.) 

When va^id j>oets vex thee sore. 

Thy Mentor's old, and would remind thee. 
That if thy griefs are all before, 

Thy pleasures are not all behind thee. 

I TUMBLE out of bed betimes 
To make my love these toddling rhymes ; 
And meet the hour, and meet the place 
To bless her blythe good-morning face. 
I send her all this heart can store ; 
I seem to see her as before, 
An angel-child, divinely fair, 
With meek blue eyes, and golden hair, 
Curls tipt with changing light, that shed 
A little glory round her head. 

Has poet ever sung or seen a 
Sweeter, wiser child than Lina ? 
Blue are her sash and snood, and blue's 
The hue of her bewitching shoes ; 
But, saving these, she's virgin dight, 
A happy creature clad in white. 



TO LINA OSWALD. 1 85 

Again she stands beneath the boughs, 
Reproves the pup, and feeds the cows ; 
Unvexed by rule, unscared by ill. 
She wanders at her own sweet will ; 
For what grave fiat could confine 
My little charter'd libertine. 
Yet free from feeling or from seeing 
The burthen of her moral being ? 

But change must come, and forms and 
dyes 
Will change before her changing eyes ; 
She'll learn to blush, and hope, and 

fear — 
And where shall I be then, my dear ? 

Little gossip, set apart 
But one small corner of thy heart ; 
Still there is one not quite employ'd, 
So let me find and fill that void ; 
Run then, and jump, and_ laugh, and 

play. 
But love me though I'm far away. 

BroomhALL, September, 1868, 



ON "A PORTRAIT OF A LADY." 

BY THE PAINTER. 

I gathered it ivetfor my oivn siveet Pet 
As we ivhisper'd and ivaW d apart : 

She gave me that rose, it is fragrant yet ^ — 
Afid oh, it is near my heart. 

She is good, for she must have a guile- 
less mind 
With that noble, trusting air ; 
A rose with a passionate heart is twined 

in her crown of golden hair. 
Some envy the cross that caressingly 
dips 
In her bosom, and some had died 
For the promise of bliss on her red, red 
lips, 
And her thousand charms beside. 

She is lovely and good ; she has peerless 
eyes ; — 
A haunting shape. She stands 



ON "A PORTRAIT OF A LADY." 187 

In a blossoming croft, under kindling 
skies ; 
The weirdest of faery lands. 
There are sapphire hills by the far-off 
seas, 
Grave laurels, and tender limes ; 
They tremble and glow in the amorous 
breeze, 
— My Beauty is up betimes. 

A bevy of idlers press around, 

To wonder, and wish, and loll ; 
*' Now who is the painter, and where 
has he found 

The woman we all extol, 
With her fresh young mouth, and her 
candid brow. 

And a bloom as of bygone days ? " 
How natural sounds their worship, how 

Impertinent seems their praise ! 

I stand aloof ; I can well afford 

To pardon the babble and crush 
As they praise a work (do I need re- 
ward ?) 



1 88 POEMS OF FREDERICK LOCKER. 

That has grown beneath my brush : 
Aloof — and, in fancy, again I hear 

The music clash in the hall, 
When they crown'd her Queen of their 
dance and cheer, 

— She is mine, and Queen of all ! 

Yes, my thoughts are away to that 
happy day, 
A few short months agone, 
When we left the games, and the dance, 
to stray 
Through the dewy flowers, alone. 
My feet are again among flowers divine. 

Away from the noise and glare. 
When I kiss'd her mouth, and her lips 
press'd mine, — 
And I fasten'd that rose in her hair. 

1868. 



THE MUSIC PALACE. 

Shall you go ? I don't ask you to seek it or shun it ; 
/ luent on an itnpulse, Pve been and Pve done it. 

So this is a music-hall, easy and free, 
A temple for singing, and dancing, and 

spree J 
The band is at Faust^ and the benches 

are filling, 
And all that I have can be had for a 

shilling. 

The senses are charm'd by the sights 

and the sounds ; 
A spirit of affable gladness abounds : 
With zest we applaud, and as madly 

recall 
The singer, the cellar-flap-dancer y and 

all. 

What Vision comes on with a wreath 
and a lyre ? 



190 POEMS OF FREDERICK LOCKER. 

A creature of impulse in scanty attire ; 

She plays the good sprite in a dream- 
haunted dell, 

She has ankles ! and eyes like a wistful 
gazelle. 

A clown sings a song, and a droll cuts a 

caper, 
And then she dissolves in a rose-colour'd 

vapour : 
Then an imp on a rope is a painfully 

pleasant 
Sensation for all the mammas that are 

present. 

But who is the damsel that smiles to me 
there 

With so reckless, indeed, so defiant an 
air ? 

She is bright — that she's pretty is more 
than I'll say. 

Is she happy ? At least she's exceed- 
ingly gay. 

It seems to me now, as we pass up the 
street, 



THE MUSIC PALACE. 191 

Is Nell worse than I, or the worthies we 
meet? 

She is reckless, her conduct's exceed- 
ingly sad — 

A coin may be light, but it need not be 
bad. 



Heaven help thee, poor child : now a 

graceless and gay thing, 
You once were your mother's, her pet 

and her plaything. 
Where was your home ? Are the stars 

that look down 
On that home, the cold stars of this 

pitiless town ? 

The stars are a riddle we never may 
read — 

I prest her poor hand, and I bade her 
Godspeed / 

She left me a heart overladen with sor- 
row — 

You may hear Nelly's laugh at the 
palace to-morrow ! 



192 POEMS OF FREDERICK LOCKER. 

Ah ! some go to revel, and some go to 

rue, 
For some go to ruin. There's Paul's 

tolling two. 



A TERRIBLE INFANT. 

I RECOLLECT a nurse call'd Ann, 
Who carried me about the grass, 

And one fine day a fine young man 
Came up, and kiss'd the pretty lass : 

She did not make the least objection ! 
Thinks I, ''Aha! 
When I can talk Til tell Mamma. ^^ 
— And that's my earliest recollection. 



WITH A BOOK OF SMALL 
SKETCHES. 

In days gone by, and year by year, 
I gleaned the sketchlets garnered here : 
Some pains they cost me, much shoe 

leather 
Before they all were got together. 
Dear children, I must flit anon ; 
O, guard them kindly when I'm gone. 



AT HURLINGHAM. 

This was dear Willy's brief despatch, 

A curt and yet a cordial summons ; — 
" Do come ! I'm in to-morrow's match, 
And see us whip the Faithful Com- 
mo7ts" 
We trundled out behind the bays, 
Through miles and miles of brick and 
garden ; 
Mamma was drest in mauve and 
maize, — 
Of course I wore my Dolly Varden, 

A charming scene, and lively too. 
The paddock's full, the band is play- 
ing 
Boulotte's song in Barbe hleue ; 

And what are all these people saying ? 
They flirt ! they bet ! There's Linda 
Reeves 



AT HURLINGHAM. I95 

Too lovely ! I'd give worlds to borrow 
Her yellow rose with russet leaves ! — 
ni wear a yellow rose to-morrow ! 

And there are May and Algy Meade ; 

How proud she looks on her promo- 
tion ! 
The ring must be amused indeed. 

And edified by such devotion i 
I wonder if she ever guess'd ! 

I wonder if he'll call on Friday ! 
I often wonder which is best ! — 

I only hope my hair is tidy ! 

Some girls repine, and some rejoice, 
And some get bored, but I'm con- 
tented 
To make my destiny my choice, — 

I'll never dream that I've repented. 
There's something sad in loved and 
crossed, 
For all the fond, fond hope that rings 
it : 
There's something sweet in *' loved and 
lost "— 
And Oh, how sweetly Alfred sings it ! 



196 POEMS OF FREDERICK LOCKER. 

I'll own I'm bored with handicaps ! — 
Bluerocks I (they always are ^^ blue- 
rock " -ing !) — 
With May, a little bit, perhaps, — 
And yon Faust's teufelshund is shock- 
ing ! 
Bang . . . bang . . . ! That's Willy! 
There's his bird, 
Blithely it cleaves the skies above 
me ! 
He's miss'd all ten ! He's too absurd ! — 
I hope he'll always, always love me ! 

We've lost ! To tea, then back to 
town ; 

The crowd is laughing, eating, drink- 
ing : 
The moon's eternal eyes look down, — 

Of what can yon sad moon be thinking 
Oh, but for some good fairy's wand, — 

This pigeoncide is worse than silly, 
But still I'm very, very fond 

Of Hurlingham, and tea, — and Willy. 



UNREFLECTING CHILDHOOD. 

The world would lose its j^nest joys 
Without its little girls and boys ; 
Their careless glee^ and simple ruth, 
And trust, and innocence, and truth, 
— Ah, 7vhat luould your j>oor j>oet do 
Without such little folk as you ? 

It is, indeed, a little while 

Since you were born, my happy pet ; 
Your future beckons with a smile, 

Your bygones don't exist as yet. 
Is all the world with beauty rife ? 

Are you a little bird that sings 
Her simple gratitude for life. 
And lovely things ? 

The ocean, and the waning moons, 
And starry skies, and starry dells, 

And winter sport, and golden Junes, 
Art, and divinest Beauty-spells : 



198 POEMS OF FREDERICK LOCKER. 

Festa and song, and frolic wit, 

And banter, and domestic mirth, — 
They all are ours ! — dear child, is it 
A pleasant earth ? 

And poet friends, and poesy, 

And precious books, for any mood : 

And then that best of company, 
Those graver thoughts in solitude 

That hold us fast and never pall : 
Then there is You, my own, my fair- 

And I . . . soon I must leave it all, 
—And much you care. 

1871. 



LITTLE DINKY. 

(A RHYME OF LESS THAN ONE.) 

The hair she means to have is gold, 
Her eyes are blue, she's twelve weeks 
old, 

Plump are her fists and pinky. 
She fluttered down in lucky hour 
From some blue deep in yon sky bower — 

I call her Little Dinky. 

A Tiny now, ere long she'll please 
To totter at my parent-knees. 

And crow, and try to chatter : 
And soon she'll take to fair white frocks. 
And frisk about in shoes and socks, — 

Her totter changed to patter. 

And soon she'll play, ay, soon enough, 
At cowslip-ball and blindman's-buff ; 



200 POEMS OF FREDERICK LOCKER. 

And, some day, we shall find her 
Grow weary of her toys — indeed 
She'll fling them all aside to heed 

A footstep close behind her. 

And years to come she'll still be rich 
In what is left, the joys with which 

Our love can aye supply us ; 
For hand in hand we'll sit us down 
Right cheerfully and let the town — 

This foolish town, go by us. 

Dinky ^ we must resign our toys 
To younger girls , to finer boys, — 

But we'll 7iot care a feather : 
For then {reflection's not regret) 
Tko"* you'll be rather old! we* II yet 

Be boy and girl together. 

As I was climbing Ludgate Hill 
I met a goose who dropt a quill, — ■ 

You see my thumb is inky ; — 
I fell to scribble there and then, 
And this is how I came to pen 

These rhymes on Little Dinky. 



GERTRUDE'S NECKLACE. 

As Gerty skipt from babe to girl, 
Her necklace lengthened, pearl by pearl ; 
Year after year it grew, and grew. 
For every birthday gave her two. 
Her neck is lovely, soft and fair, 
And now her necklace glimmers there. 

So cradled, let it sink and rise, 
And all her graces emblemize. 
Perchance this pearl, without a speck, 
Once was as warm on Sappho's neck ;— 
Where are the happy, twilight pearls 
That braided Beatrice's curls ? 

Is Gerty loved ?— Is Gerty loth ? 
Or, if she's either, is she both ? 
She's fancy free, but sweeter far 
Than many plighted maidens are : 
Will Gerty smile us all away. 
And still be Gerty ? Who can say ? 



202 POEMS OF FREDERICK LOCKER. 

But let her wear her precious toy, 

And I'll rejoice to see her joy : 

Her bauble's only one degree 

Less frail, less fugitive than we ; 

For time, ere long, will snap the skein. 

And scatter all the pearls again. 



GERTRUDE'S GLOVE. 

Elle avait au bout de ses manches 
Une paire de mains si blanches I 

Slips of a kid-skin deftly sewn, 
A scent as through her garden blown, 
The tender hue that clothes her dove, 
All these, and this is Gerty's glove. 

A glove but lately dofft, for look — 
It keeps the happy shape it took 
Warm from her touch ! What gave the 

glow? 
And Where's the mould that shaped it so ? 

It clasp'd the hand, so pure, so sleek. 
Where Gerty rests a pensive cheek. 
The hand that when the light wind stirs. 
Reproves those laughing locks of hers. 

You fingers four, you little thumb ! 
Were I but you, in days to come 
I'd clasp, and kiss, — I'd keep her— go I 
And tell her that I told you so. 
KissiNGEN, September, 1871. 



MABEL. 



AT HER WINDOW. 

Ah^ minstrel, koiv strange is 
The carol you sing! 

Let Psyche, who ranges 

The garden of springy 

Remember the changes 

December will bring. 

Beating heart ! we come again 
Where my Love reposes : 

This is Mabel's window-pane ; 
These are Mabel's roses. 

Is she nested ? Does she kneel 

In the twilight stilly ; 
Lily clad from throat to heel, 

She, my virgin lily ? 

Soon the wan, the wistful stars, 
Fading, will forsake her j 



MABEL. 205 

Elves of light, on beamy bars, 
Whisper then, and wake her. 

Let this friendly pebble plead 

At her flowery grating. 
If she hear me will she heed ? 

Mabel, I am waiting, 

Mabel will be deck'd anon, 

Zoned in bride's apparel ; 
Happy zone ! — Oh hark to yon 

Passion-shaken carol ! 

Sing thy song, thou tranced thrush, 
Pipe thy best, thy clearest ; — 

Hush, her lattice moves, O hush — 
Dearest Mabel I—dearest . . . 

II. 

HER MUFF. 

Lively Shepherdess. 
Now mind. 
He'll call on you, io-morroiv at eleven^ 
And beg that you 7vill dine 7uith us at seven ; 
If, tuken He calls, you see that He has got 
His green umbrella, then you'll know He'll not 
Be going to the House, andyoi^ll decline^ 
Bui if He hasn't it, youUlcome and dine. 



2o6 POEMS OF FREDERICK LOCKER. 

Happy Shepherd. 
But if it rains : then how? and ivhere ? and when? 
And hoiv about the green umbrella then ? 

Lively Shepherdess. 
Then He' II be luet, thafs all, for if I don't 
Choose He sJtould take it, why, of course f you goose ! 
He ivon't. 

Arcady. 

She's jealous ! Does it grieve me ? No I 
I'm glad to see my Mabel so, 

Carina mia I 
Poor Puss ! That now and then she 

draws 
Conclusions, not without a cause, 

Is my idea. 

She loves ; and I'm prepared to prove 
That jealousy is kin to love 

In constant women. 
My jealous Pussy cut up rough 
The day before I bought her muff 

With sable trimming. 

These tearful darlings think to quell us 
By being so divinely jealous ; 
But I know better. 



MABEL. 207 

Hillo ! Who's that ? A damsel ! Come, 
I'll follow :— no, I can't, for some 
One else has met her. 

What fun ! He looks '^ a lad of grace." 
She holds her muff to hide her face ; 

They kiss,— The Sly Puss ! 
Hillo ! Her muff, — it's trimm'd with 

sable ! . . 
It's like the muff I gave to Mabel ! . . . 

Goodl-o-r-d, SHE'S MV PUSS ! 



TO LINA OSWALD. 

(WITH A BIRTHDAY LOCKET.) 

** My darling wants to see you soon" — 
/ bless the little maid, and thank her / 

To do her biddifi^, night and noon 
I draw Oft Hope — Lov^s kindest banker f 

Your Sun is in brightest apparel, 
Your birds and your blossoms are gay, 

But where is my jubilant carol 
To welcome so joyous a day ? 

I sang for you when you were smaller, 
As fair as a fawn, and as wild : 

Now, Lina, you're ten and you're taller — 
You elderly child. 

I knew you in shadowless hours, 
When thought never came with a 
smart ; 

You then were the pet of your flowers, 
And joy was the child of your heart. 

I ever shall love you, and dearly ! — 
I think when you're even thirteen 



TO LINA OSWALD. 209 

You'll Still have a heart, and not merely 
A flirting machine ! 

And when time shall have spoil'd you of 
passion, — 
Discrown'd what you now think sub- 
lime, 
Oh, I swear that you'll still be the fashion. 

And laugh at the antics of time. 
To love you will then be no duty ; 

But happiness nothing can buy — 
There's a bud in your garland, my 
beauty, 

That never can die. 

A heart may be bruised and not bro- 
ken, — 
A soul may despair and still reck ; — 
I send you, dear child, a poor token 
Of love, for your dear little neck. 
The heart that will beat just below it 

Is open and pure as your brow — 
May that heart, when you come to be- 
stow it, 

Be happy as now. 
1869-1872. 



THE REASON WHY. 

Ask why I love the roses fair, 

And whence they come and whose they 

were ; 
They come from her, and not alone. 
They bring her sweetness with their 



Or ask me why I love her so, 
I know not, this is all I know. 
These roses bud and bloom, and twine 
As she round this fond heart of mine. 

And this is why I love the flowers. 
Once they were hers, they're mine — 

they're ours 1 
I love her, and they soon will die, 
And now you know the reason why. 



A WINTER FANTASY. 

December has hrougkt you a Bonnie May^ — 
A bonnie snveetheart is bound your way : 
He is coming — tho'' you little wot, — 
You are ivaiting—yet ke knows it not ! 

Your veil is thick, and none would 
know 

The pretty face it quite obscures ; 
But if you foot it through the snow, 

Distrust those little boots of yours. 

The tell-tale snow, a sparkling mould, 
Says where they go and whence they 
came. 
Lightly they touch its carpet cold, 
And where they touch they sign your 
name. 

She pass'd beneath yon branches bare, 
How fair her face, and how content ! 

I only know her face was fair, — 
I only know she came and went. 



212 POEMS OF FREDERICK LOCKER. 

Pipe, robins, pipe ; though boughs be 
bleak. 
Ye are her winter choristers ; 
Whose cheek will press that rose-cold 
cheek ? 
What lips those fresh young lips of 
hers? 



THE UNREALIZED IDEAU 

My only love is always near, — 

In country or in town 
I see her twinkling feet, I hear 

The whisper of her gown. 

She foots it ever fair and young. 
Her locks are tied in haste, 

And one is o'er her shoulder flung, 
And hangs below her waist. 

She ran before me in the meads ; 

And down this world-worn track 
She leads me on ; but while she leads 

She never gazes back. 

And yet her voice is in my dreams, 
To witch me more and more ; 

That wooing voice ! Ah me, it seems 
Less near me than of yore. 



214 POEMS OF FREDERICK LOCKER. 

Lightly I sped when hope was high, 
And youth beguiled the chase, — 

I follow, follow still ; but I 
Shall never see her face. 



IT MIGHT HAVE BEEN, 

A FRIENDLY bird with bosom red 
Is fluting near my garden seat ; 

Your sky is fair above my head, 
And Tweed rejoices at my feet. 

The squirrels gambol in the oak, 
All, all is glad, but you prefer 

To linger on amid the smoke 
Of stony-hearted Westminster. 

Again I read your letter through, — 
" How wonderful is fate's decree, 

How sweet is all your life to you. 
And oh, how sad is mine to me." 

I know your wail — who knows it not ?— 
He gave, — He taketh that He gave. 

Yours is the lot, the common lot. 
To go down weeping to the grave. 



2l6 POEMS OF FREDERICK LOCKER. 

Sad journey to a dark abyss, 
Meet ending of your sorrow keen, — 

The burden of My dirge is this, 

And this My woe, — It might have 
been ! 

Dear bird ! Blithe bird that sings in 
frost 

Forgive my friend if he is sad ; 
He mourns what he has only lost,— 

I weep what I have never had. 

Lees, September 27, 1873. 



LOVE, TIME,, AND DEATH. 

Ah me, dread friends of mine — Love, 
Time, and Death ! 
Sweet Love who came to me on sheeny 
wing, 
And gave her to my arms — her hps, her 
breath. 
And ail her golden ringlets clustering : 
And Time who gathers in the flying 

years 
He gave me all, but where is all he 

gave? 
He took my Love and left me barren 
tears, — 
Weary and lone I follow to the grave. 
There Death will end this vision half 
divine, — 
Wan Death, who waits in shadow 
evermore. 
And silent, ere he give the sudden sign ; 



2l8 POEMS OF FREDERICK LOCKER. 

O, gently lead me thro' thy narrow 
door, 
Thou gentle Death, thou trustiest friend 
of mine, 
— Ah me for Love . . . will Death 
my Love restore ? 



THE OLD STONEMASON. 

A SHOWERY day in early spring — 

An old man and a child 
Are seated near a scaffolding 

Where marble blocks are piled. 

His clothes are stain'd by age and soil, 

As hers by rain and sun ; 
He looks as if his days of toil 

Were very nearly done. 

To eat his dinner he had sought 

A staircase proud and vast, 
And here the duteous child had brought 

His scanty noon repast. 

A worn-out workman needing aid ; — 
A blooming child of light ; — 

The stately palace steps ; — all made 
A most pathetic sight. 



220 POEMS OF FREDERICK LOCKER. 

We had sought shelter from the storm, 

And saw this lowly pair, 
But none could see a Shining Form 

That watch'd beside them there. 

1874. 



A RHYME OF ONE. 

JEx^lain ivhy childhood? s path is sown 
With moral and scholastic tin tacks; 

Ere sin {Original) ivas kttoivn. 

Did Adain groan beneath the syntax ? 

You sleep upon your mother's breast, 
Your race begun, 
A welcome, long a°wish'd-for guest, 
Whose age is One. 

A baby-boy, you wonder why 

You cannot run ; 
You try to talk — how hard you try ! — 

You're only One. 

Ere long you won't be such a dunce ; 

You'll eat your bun, 
And fly your kite, like folk, who once 

Were only One. 

You'll rhyme, and woo, and fight, and 
joke, 



222 POEMS OF FREDERICK hOC CER. 

Perhaps you'll pun ! 
Such feats are never done by folk 
Before they're One. 

Some day, too, you may have your joy, 

And envy none ; 
Yes, you, yourself, may own a boy, 

Who isn't One. 

He'll dance, and laugh, and crow, he'll 
do 

As you have done : 
(You crown a happy home, tho' you 

Are only One). 

But when he's grown shall you be here 

To share his fun. 
And talk of times when he (the dear !) 

Was hardly One ? 

Dear child, 'tis your poor lot to be 

My little son ; 
I'm glad, though I am old, you see,— 

While you are One. 

1876, 



MY SONG. 

You ask a song, 

Such as of yore, an autumn's even- 
tide, 

Some blest boy-poet caroll'd,— and then 
died. 
Nay, / have sung too long. 

Say, shall I fling 
A sigh to Beauty at her window-pane ? 
I sang there once, might I not once 

again ? — 
Or tell me whom to sing. 

The peer of Peers ? 
Lord of the wealth that gives his time 

employ- 
Time to possess, but hardly to enjoy — 
He cannot need my tears. 



224 POEMS OF FREDERICK LOCKER. 

The man of mind, 
Or priest, who darkens what is clear as 

day? 
I cannot sing them, yet I will not say 
Such guides are wholly blind. 

The Orator ? 
He quiet lies where yon fresh hillock 

heaves : 
*Twere well to sprinkle there those 

laurel-leaves 
He won,— but never wore. 

Or shall I twine 
The Cypress ? Wreath of glory and of 

gloom, — 
To march a gallant soldier to his doom, 
Needs fuller voice than mine. 

No lay have I, 
No murmured measure meet for your 

delight. 
No song of Love and Death, to make 

you quite 
Forget that we must die. 



MY SONG. 22$ 

Something is wrong, — 
The world is over-wise ; or, more's the 

pity, 
These days are far too busy for a ditty, 
Yet take it, — take my Song. 

1876. 



INCHBAE. 

Anon he shuts the solemn book 
To heed the faUing of the brook, 
He cares but little why it flows, 
Or whence it comes, or where it goes. 

jt'or here, on this delightful bank, 
His past — his future are a blank ; 
Enough for him the bloom, the cheer, 
They all are his, to-day and here. 

But hark a voice that carols free. 
And fills the air with melody I 
She comes ! a creature clad in grace, 
And gospel promise in her face. 

So let her fearlessly intrude 
On this his much loved solitude ; 
Is she a lovely phantom, or 
That love he long has waited for ? 



INCHBAE. 227 

welcome as the morning dew ; 
Long, long have I expected you ; 
Come, share my seat, and, late or soon, 
All else that's mine beneath the moon. 

And sing your happy roundelay 
While nature listens. Till to-day 
This mirthful stream has never known 
A cadence gladder than its own : 

Forgive if I too fondly gaze, 

Or praise the eyes that others praise : 

1 watch'd my Star, I've wander'd far — 
Are you my joy ? You know you are ! 

Let others praise, as others prize, 
The witching twilight of your eyes — 
I cannot praise you : I adore. 
And that is praise — and something more. 



ANY POET TO HIS LOVE. 

A rather sad man, still at times he 7vas Jolly, 
And though hating a fool he'd a nueakness for folly. 

Immortal Verse ! Is mine the strain 
To last and live ? As ages wane 
Will one be found to twine the bays, 
And praise me then as now you praise ? 

Will there be one to praise ? Ah no ! 
My laurel leaf may never grow ; 
My bust is in the quarry yet, — 
Oblivion weaves my coronet. 

Immortal for a month — a week ! 
The garlands wither as I speak ; 
The song will die, the harp's unstrung,— 
But, singing, have I vainly sung ? 

You deign'd to lend an ear the while 
I trill'd my lay. I won your smile. 



ANY POET TO HIS LOVE. 229 

Now, let it die, or let it live, — 
My verse was all I had to give. 

The linnet flies on wistful wings, 

And finds a bower, and lights and 

sings ; 
Enough if my poor verse endures 
To light, and live— to die in yours. 

1875. 



THE CUCKOO. 

We heard it calling, clear and low, 
That tender April morn ; we stood 
And listened in the quiet wood 

We heard it, ay, long years ago. 

It came, and with a strange, sweet cry, 
A Friend, but from a far-off land ; 
We stood and listened, hand in hand, 

And heart to heart, my Love and I . 

In dreamland then we found our joy, 
And so it seem'd as 'twere the Bird 
That Helen in old times had heard 

At noon beneath the oaks of Troy. 

O time far off, and yet so near ! 
It came to her in that hush'd grove, 
It warbled while the wooing throve, 

It sang the song she liked to hear. 

And now I hear its voice again, 
And still its message is of peace, 
It sings of love that will not cease — 

For me it never sings in vain. 



HEINE TO HIS MISTRESS. 

What do the violets ail, 

So wan, so shy ? 
Why are the roses pale ? 

Oh why ? Oh why ? 

The lark sad music makes 

To sullen skies ; 
From yonder flowery brakes 

Dead odours rise. 

Why is the sun's new birth 

A dawn of gloom ? 
Oh why is this fair earth 

My joyless tomb ? 

I wait apart and sigh 

I call to thee ; 
Why, Heart's-belov^d, why 

Didst thou leave me ? 



1876. 



FROM THE CRADLE. 

They tell me I was born a long 

Three months ago, 
But whether they be right or wrong 

I hardly know. 
I sleep, I smile, I cannot crawl, 

But I can cry : 
At present I am rather small— 

A Babe am I. 

The changing lights of sun and shade 

Are baby toys ; 
The flowers and birds are not afraid 

Of baby boys. 
Some day I'll wish that I could be 

A bird and fly ; 
At present I can't wish — you see 

A Babe am I. 



THE TWINS. 

Yes, there they lie, so small, so quaint, 

Two mouths, two noses, and two chins ; 
What Painter shall we get to paint 

And glorify the Twins ? 
To give us all the charm that dwells 
In tiny cloaks and coral-bells. 
And all those other pleasant spells 
Of Babyhood, and not forget 
The silver mug for either Pet — 

No babe should be without it ? 
Come, Fairy Limner ! you can thrill 
Our hearts with pink and daffodil, 
And white rosette, and dimpled frill ; 
Come, paint our little Jack and Jill, 

And don't be long about it I 



AN EPITAPH. 

Her worth, her wit, her loving smile 

Were with me but a little while ; 

She came, she went; yet though that 

Voice 
Is hush'd that made the heart rejoice, 
And though the grave is dark and chill, 
Her memory is fragrant still, — 
She stands on the eternal hill. 

Here pause, kind soul, whoe'er you be, 
And weep for her, and pray for me. 



BABY MINE. 

Baby mine, with the grave, grave face, 
Where did you get that royal calm. 

Too staid for joy, too still for grace ? 
I bend as I kiss your pink, soft palm ; 

Are you the first of a nobler race. 
Baby mine ? 



You come from the region of long agOy 
And gazing awhile where the seraphs 
dwell 
Has given your face a glory and glow — 
Of that brighter land have you ought 
to tell ? 
I seem to have known it — I more would 
know, 

Baby mine. 



236 POEMS OF FREDERICK LOCKER. 

Your calm, blue eyes have a far-of! 
reach, 
Look at me now with those wondrous 
eyes, 
Why are we doom'd to the gift of 
speech 
While you are silent, and sweet, and 
wise? 
You have much to learn — you have more 
to teach, 

Baby mine. 



DU RYS DE MADAME D'ALLE- 
BRET. 

How fair those locks which now the light 
wind stirs ! 
What eyes she has, and what a per- 
fect arm ! 
And yet methinks that little Laugh of 
hers — 
That little Laugh is still her crowning 
charm. 
Where'er she passes, country-side or 
town. 
The streets make festa, and the fields 
rejoice. 
Should sorrow come, as 'twill, to cast 
me down. 
Or Death, as come he must, to hush 
my voice. 
Her Laugh would wake me, just as now 
it thrills me — 
That little giddy Laugh wherewith she 
kills me. 



THE LADY I LOVE. 

The Lady I sing is as charming as 

Spring, 
I own that I love the dear Lady I sing : 
She is gay, she is sad, she is good, she 

is fair. 
She lives at a Number in Square. 

It is not 21, it is not 23 — 

You never shall get her Number from 

me; 
If you did, very soon you'd be mounting 

the stair 
Of Number (no matter what !) 

Square. 

They say she is clever. Indeed it is 

said 
She is making a Novel right out of her 

Head ! 



THE LADY I LOVE. 239 

That poor little Head ! If her heart were 

to spare, 
I'd break, and I'd mend it in 

Square. 

I've a heart of my own, and, in prose as 

in rhymes, 
This heart has been fractured a good 

many times ; 
An excellent heart, tho' in sorry repair — 
Little Friend f may I mend it in 

Square ? 

^^What nonsetise yoit talk" Yes, but 

still I am one 
Who feels pretty grave when he seems 

full of fun ; 
Some people are pretty, and yet full of 

care — 
And Some One is pretty in 

Square. 

I know I am singing in old-fashion'd 
phrase 

The music that pleased in the old- 
fashion'd days ; 



240 POEMS OF FREDERICK LOCKER. 

Alas, I know, too, I've an old-fashion'd 

air — 
Oh, why did I ever see — ■ Square I 



POSTSCRIPT. 

The writer of prose, by intelligence taught, 
Says the thing that will please, in the way that 

he ought, 
But your poor despised Bard, who by Nature 

is blest, 
(In the scope of a couplet, or guise of a jest,) 
Says the thing that he pleases as pleases him 

best. 



OUR PHOTOGRAPHS. 

She play'd me false, but that's not why 
I haven't quite forgiven Di, 

Although I've tried : 
This curl was hers, so brown, so bright, 
She gave it me one blissful night, 

And — more beside ! 

Our photographs were group'd together ; 
She wore the darling hat and feather 

That I adore ; 
In profile by her side I sat 
Reading my poetry — but that 

She'd heard before. 

Why, after all, Di threw me over 
I never knew, I can't discover. 

And hardly guess ; 
May be Smith's lyrics she decided 
Were sweeter than the sweetest I did — 

I acquiesce. 



242 POEMS OF FREDERICK LOCKER. 

A week before their wedding day, 
That Beast was call'd in haste away 

To join the Staff. 
Di gave him then, with tearful mien, 
Her only photograph. I've seen 

That photograph, 

I've seen it in Smith's pocket-book ! 
Just think ! her hat, her tender look, 

Are now that Brute's ! 
Before she gave it, off she cut 
My body, head and lyrics, but 
She was obliged, the little Slut, 

To leave my Boots. 



MA FUTURE. 

We parted, but again I stopt 

To greet her at the door, 
Her thimble, mine the gift, had dropt 

Unheeded to the floor. 

Her eyes met mine, her eyeHds fell 
To veil their sweet content ; 

Her happy blush and 'kmdi farewell 
Were with me as I went. 

And when I join'd the human tide 

And turmoil of the street, 
A Spirit-form was at my side, 

And gladness wing'd my feet. 

Exultingly the world went by. 
The town and I were gay ! 

And one far stretch of soft blue sky 
Seem'd leading me away. 

I left her happy, and I know 

That we shall meet anon ; 
I left my Love an hour ago. 

And yet she is not gone. 



MY NEIGHBOUR'S WIFE! 

Hark ! hark to my neighbour's flute ! 
Yon powder'd slave, that ox, that ass 

are his : 
Hark to his wheezy pipe ; my neigh- 
bour is 
A worthy sort of brute. 

My tuneful neighbour's rich — has 
houses, lands, 
A wife (confound his flute)— a handsome 

wife ! 
Her love must give a gusto to his life. 
See yonder— there she stands. 

She turns, she gazes, she has lustrous 
eyes, 
A throat like Juno and Aurora's arms — 
Per Bacco, what a paragon of charms ! 
My neighbour's drawn a prize. 



MY NEIGHBOUR'S WIFE ! 245 

Yet, somehow, life's a nuisance with 
its woes, 
Disease and doubt— and that eternal 

preaching : 
We've suffer'd from our early pious 
teaching — 
We suffer — goodness knows. 

How vain the wealth that breeds its 
own vexation ! 
Yet few of us would care to quite fore- 
go it : 
Then weariness of life— and many know 
it- 
Is not a glad sensation : 

And therefore, neighbour mine, with- 
out a sting 
I contemplate thy fields, thy house, thy 

flocks, 
I covet not thy man, thine ass, thine ox, 
Thy flute, thy— anything. 



ARCADY. 

LIVELY SHEPHERDESS. 

Now mind, 
He'll call on you to morrow at eleven, 
And beg that you will dine with us at 

seven ; 
If, when He calls, you see that He has 

got 
His green umbrella, then you'll know 

He'll not 
Be going to the House, and you'll decline, 
But if He hasn't it, you'll come and dine. 

HAPPY SHEPHERD. 

But if it rains : then how ? and where ? 

and when ? 
And how about the green umbrella then ? 

LIVELY SHEPHERDESS. 

Then He'll be Wet, that's all, for if I 

don't 
Choose He should take it, why, of course! 

you goose ! he won't. 



A KIND PROVIDENCE. 

He dropt a tear on Susan's bier, 

He seem'd a most despairing Swain ; 
But bluer sky brought newer tie, 

And — would he wish her back again ? 
The moments fly, and when we die. 

Will Philly Thistletop complain ? 
She'll cry and sigh, and — dry her eye, 

And let herself be woo'd again. 



NOTES, 



NOTES. 



"St. George's, Hanover Square." 

"Dans le bonheur de nos meilleurs amis 
nous trouvons souvent quelque chose qui ne 
nous plait pas entierement." 



"A Human Skull." 

" In our last month's Magazine you may 
remember there were some verses about a 
portion of a skeleton. Did you remark how 
the poet and present proprietor of the human 
skull at once settled the sex of it, and de- 
termined off-hand that it must have belonged 
to a woman ? Such skulls are locked up in 
many gentlemen's hearts and memories. Blue- 
beard, you know, had a whole museum of them 
—as that imprudent httle last wife of his found 
out to her cost. And, on the other hand, a 
lady, we suppose, would select hers of the 
sort which had carried beards when in the 
flesh." — Adventures of Philip on his Way 



252 NOTES. 

through the World. Cornhill Magazine, Jait* 
nary, i86i.* 

" To My Old Friend Postumus." 

The Well-beloved !—B. L. died 26th July, 

1853. 

" To My Mistress." 

M. Deschanel quotes the following charm- 
ing little poem by Corneille, addressed to a 
young lady who had not been quite civil to 
him. He says with truth—" Le sujet est leger, 
le rhythme court, mais on y retrouve la fierte 
de I'homme, et aussi I'ampleur du tragique." 
The last four stanzas, in particular, are brimful 
of spirit, and the mixture of pride and vanity 
they display is remarkable, 

''Marquise, si mon visage 
A quelques traits un peu vieux, 
Souvenez-vous, qu'i mon ige 
Vous ne vaudrez guere mieux. 

* When I first sent these lines to the Cornhill 
Magazine, Mr. Thackeray, the editor, and an admirable 
judge of verse, proposed an alteration in the third 
stanza, and he returned it to me as it now stands. 
Originally I had made it to run thus :— 

Did she live yesterday, or ages sped ? 

What colour were the eyes when bright and waking ? 
And were your ringlets fair ? Poor little head ! 
. • — Poor little heart ! that long has done with aching 



NOTES. 253 

•• Le temps aux plus belles choses 
Se platt i faire un affront, 
Et saura faner vos roses 
Comme il a ride mon front. 

•• Le meme cours des planetes 
Regie nos jours et nos nuits ; 
On m'a vu ce que vous etes, 
Vous serez ce que je suis. 

" Cependant j'ai quelques charmes 
Qui sont assez eclatants 
Pour n'avoir pas trop d'alarmes 
De ces ravages du temps. 

•• Vous en avez qu'on adore, 
Mais ceux que vous meprisez 
Pourraient bien durer encore 
Quand ceux-la seront uses. 

«' lis pourront sauver la gloire 
Des yeux qui me semblent doux, 
Et dans mille ans faire croire 
Ce qu'il me plaira de vous. 

" Chez cette race nouvelle 
Oil j 'aural quelque credit, 
Vous ne passerez pour belle 
Qu'autant que je I'aurai dit. 

*• Pensez-y, belle Marquise, 
Quoiqu'un grison fasse effroi, 
II vaut qu'on le courtise 
Quand il est fait comme moi. " 



254 NOTES. 

" The Rose and the Ring." 

Mr, Thackeray spent a portion of the 
winter of 1854 in Rome, and while there he 
wrote his little Christmas story called " The 
Rose and the Ring." He was a great friend 
of the distinguished American sculptor, Mr. 
Story, and was a frequent visitor at his house. 
I have heard Mr. Story speak with emotion of 
the kindness of Mr. Thackery to his little 
daughter, then recovering from a severe illness, 
and he told me that Mr.Thackeray used to come 
nearly every day to read to Miss Story, often 
bringing portions of his manuscript with him. 

Five or six years afterwards Miss Story 
showed me a very pretty copy of " The Rose 
and the Ring," which Mr. Thackeray had sent 
her, with a facetious sketch of himself in the 
act of presenting her with the work. 

"Nuptial Verses." 

These lines were published in 1863 in " A 
Welcome," dedicated to the Princess of Wales ; 
and "An Aspiration" was written for two 
Woodcuts in "A Round of Days." (Christ* 
mas, 1865.) 

"The Jester's Moral." 
" I WISH that I could run away 

From House, and Court, and Levee : 
Where bearded men appear to-day. 
Just Eton boyn grown heavy," 

W, M. Praed. 



NOTES. 255 



"A Garden Idyll." 

When these verses appeared in Macmillan' s 
Magazine they ran as follows, but many of my 
readers could not see the point, and others, 
seeing it, disliked it so heartily, that I altered 
them in sheer vexation ; now they have two 
readings, and can take their choice. 

GERALDINE AND I. 

Di te, Damasippe, deseque 
Verum ob consilium donent tonsore. 

I HAVE talk'd with her often in noon-day heat, 
We have walk'd under wintry skies ; 

Her voice is the dearest voice, and sweet 
Is the light in her gentle eyes ; 

It is bliss in the silent woods, among 
Gay crowds, or in any place, 

To mould her mind, to gaze in her young 
Confiding face. 

For ever may roses divinely blow. 

And wine-dark pansies charm 
By that prim box path where I felt the glow 

Of her dimpled, trusting arm. 
And the sweep of her silk as she turn'd and 
smiled 
A smile as fair as her pearls ; 
The breeze was in love with the darling child, 
And coax'd her curls. 



256 NOTES. 

She show'd me her ferns and woodbine sprays, 

Foxglove and jasmine stars, 
A mist of blue in the beds, a blaze 

Of red in the celadon jars : 
And velvety bees in convolvulus bells, 

And roses of bountiful Spring. 
But I said — ' ' Though roses and bees have 
spells, 

They have thorn and sting." 

She show'd me ripe peaches behind a net 

As fine as her veil, and fat 
Gold fish a-gape, who lazily met 

For her crumbs— I grudged them that ! 
A squirrel, some rabbits with long lop ears, 

And guinea-pigs, tortoise-shell— wee ; 
And I told her that eloquent truth inheres 
In all we see. 

I lifted her doe by its lops, quoth I, 

" Even here deep meaning lies, — 
Why have squirrels these ample tails, and why 

Have rabbits these prominent eyes ? " 
She smiled and said, as she twirl'd her veil, 

*' For some nice little cause, no doubt — 
If you lift a guinea-pig up by the tail 
His eyes drop out ! " 

1868. 

" St. James's Street." 

I HOPE my readers, whoever they may be, will 
not credit me with all the sentiments expressed 
in this volume. I am told that these lines 



NOTES. 257 

have disturbed some Americans, but surely 
without cause. The remark in the seventh 
stanza is natural in the mouth of a rather ex- 
clusive habitue of St. James's, who has the 
mortification to feel that he is no longer young, 
who is too shallow-minded to appreciate our 
advance in civilisation during the last forty 
years, but who is nevertheless sufficiently keen 
to see what is possible in the future. My 
friends know I have a sincere admiration for 
the American people. 

"A Nice Correspondent." 

Ere long, perhaps in the next generation, 
the word nice, and some other equally com- 
mon words, may have passed into the limbo of 
elegant, genteel, &c. Fashions change, and 
certain words sink in the scale of gentility, and 
pass, like houses, into the hands of humbler oc- 
cupants. But what can poor poets do ! 

"A Winter Fantasy." 

The two first stanzas are imitated from 
Theophile Gautier. 



The kind of verse I have attempted in some 
of the pieces in this volume was in repute dur- 
ing the era of Swift and Prior, and again 
during the earlier years of this century. Af- 



258 NOTES. 

terwards it fell into comparative neglect, but 
has now regained a little of its old popularity. 
Herrick, Suckling, Waller, Swift, Prior, 
Cowper, Landor, Moore, Praed, and Thack- 
eray may be considered its representative men, 
and each has his peculiar merit. Herrick is a 
finished artist, with a delightful feeling and 
fancy, and some of his flower-pieces are as 
perfect as anything of the kind in the lan- 
guage. We admire Suckling for his gusto, 
and careless, natural grace ; while Waller has 
never been equalled for the way in which he 
blends his courtly wit and rhythmic elegance ; 
his lines '' To a Rose," and " On a Girdle," in 
these respects, leave nothing to be desired. 
Swift is pre-eminent for the intensity of his 
mordant humour, as Prior for his genial and 
sprightly wit, or as Hazlitt very happily ex- 
presses it, his " mischievous gaiety." Cowper 
is a master of tender and playful irony. Lan- 
dor is wanting in humour and variety, but he 
atones for it by his pathos, and his pellucid 
and classical style. Moore, as a satirist, is a 
very expert swordsman, and although there is 
rather too much tinsel in his sentiment, he has 
wit, and fun, and music, and sparkling fancy 
in abundance. Praed has considerable fancy, 
but it is less wild than Moore's, while his sym- 
pathies are narrower than Thackeray's ; he 
has plenty of wit, however, and a highly idio- 
matic, incisive, and most finished style, and, in 
his peculiar vein, has never been equalled 



NOTES. 259 

and it may be safely affirmed, never can be ex- 
celled. What am I to say of Thackeray ? As 
he is yet rather too near to us, I will not criti- 
cize him ; but I may observe that he is almost 
as humorous as Swift, and occasionally almost 
as tender as Cowper, and one does not exacdy 
see why he might not have been as good an ar- 
tist as most of those above mentioned. 

Lovelace has given us one or two little 
poems, by no means perfect, but which in 
their way are admirable. The gay and gallant 
Colonel is at this moment one of our really 
popular minor poets, and all for the sake of 
some two short pages of verse ! Marlowe, 
Wotton, Ben Jonson, Raleigh, and Montrose 
must not be forgotten, as all have written ex- 
cellently ; not to speak of Carew, Sedley, Par- 
nell ("When thy beauty appears"), Pope, 
Gray, Goldsmith, Captain Morris (" I'm often 
asked by plodding Souls "), Canning (the im- 
mortal "Needy Knife-grinder"), Luttrell, 
Rogers, Coleridge, Mrs. Barbauld ("Human 
Life"), W. R. Spencer, the brothers Smith 
(the inimitable "Rejected Addresses"), 
Haynes Bayly, Dr. Barham, Peacock ('' Love 
and Age"), Francis Mahony ("The Bells of 
Shandon"), Leigh Hunt, Hood, Lord Macau- 
lay ("A Valentine"), Mrs. Browning, and 
many others, dead and living. 

Light lyrical verse should be short, elegant, 
refined, and fanciful, not seldom distinguished 
by chastened sentiment, and often playful, and 



26o NOTES. 

it should have one uniform and simple design. 
The tone should not be pitched high, and the 
language should be idiomatic, the rhythm 
crisp and sparkling, the rhyme frequent and 
never forced, while the entire poem should be 
marked by tasteful moderation, high finish, 
and completeness ; for however trivial the sub- 
ject matter may be, indeed rather in propor- 
tion to its triviality, subordination to the rules 
of composition, and perfection of execution, 
should be strictly enforced. Each piece can- 
not be expected to exhibit all these character- 
istics, but the qualities of brevity and buoy- 
ancy are essential. 

It should also have the air of being sponta- 
neous ; indeed, to write it well is a difficult 
accomplishment, and no one has fully suc- 
ceeded in it without possessing a certain gift 
of irony, which is not only a rarer quality than 
humour, or even wit, but is altogether less com- 
monly met with than is sometimes imagined. 
The poem may be tinctured with a well-bred 
philosophy, it may be gay and gallant, it may 
be playfully malicious or tenderly ironical, it 
may display lively banter, and it may be satiri- 
cally facetious, it may even, considering it as a 
mere work of art, be pagan in its philosophy 
or trifling in its tone, but it must never be pon- 
derous or commonplace. It is needless to say 
that good sense will be found to underlie all 
the best poetry of whatever kind. There are 
good poets whose productions are more pol' 



NOTES. 261 

ished than finished, their stanzas are less per, 
feet than their single lines, and their whole 
poems are not so satisfactory as either ; and 
again there are better poets who are more fin- 
ished than polished ; now it seems to me that 
both qualities are peculiar to, and are pretty 
equally balanced in the best productions of the 
authors I have mentioned above. 

It is interesting to see what Voltaire* says 
of rhyme, its value, and its difficulties, and 
then to observe with how little success it is 
usually practised. Rhyme and alliteration 
cannot be too important features in burlesque 
verse. They may be prominent in satire and 
semi-humorous poetry, but their presence 
should be less and less marked as the poem 
rises in tone. It is consoling to find that the 
most worn and the worst used rhymes and 
metres instantly recover all their charm and 
freshness in the hands of a master. 

This volume is now arranged finally. It is 
with diffidence that I again offer it to the pub- 
lic. No one is so painfully aware as myself of 
its many shortcomings, its extreme insignifi- 



* " We insist that the rhyme shall cost nothing to the 
ideas, that itshall neither be trivial, nor too far-fetched : 
we exact rigorously in a verse the same purity, the 
same precision, as in prose. We do not admit the 
smallest license ; we require an author to carry without 
a break all these chains, and yet that he should appear 
ever free." 



262 NOTES. 

cance, and its great incompleteness, and I 
never felt it more keenly than now, in sending 
out this the eighth edition. My dear reader, 
if I have included pieces which ought to have 
been consigned to the dust-bin of immediate 
oblivion, I hope you will forgive me. 



THE END, 



